


Immortal

by Arihaney_6900



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29200125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arihaney_6900/pseuds/Arihaney_6900
Summary: It's been a long time since Sebastian left his young master to live a long normal life. But what happens if that life was too long??
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis & Ciel Phantomhive, Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	1. Regret

There are not many emotions that demons do not typically feel. We have the same emotional range as humans, perhaps even greater. However, we can choose to avoid them, to take ourselves out of the path of that would lead us to them. Humans do not have that kind of restraint. They are foolhardy creatures that live in the moment and delight in the pain it brings them when it has ended.

Of all of those many emotions that we have, regret is something that we do not often feel. We avoid it by means of our own intelligence. We do not get attached. We do not get overly involved. Much like a human would never eat their pet; we know to keep our distance. In all of my long life, I can count the number of my regrets on the fingers of a single hand. The only truly remarkable part about this is the fact that two of these have occurred within the past century and a half. The thing that I regret most was my decision to leave the service of Ciel Phantomhive.

____

Shortly before his fourteenth birthday, my former young master achieved his wish. The last of the people who had tortured him, burned his home and destroyed his family had been found. I tore the head off the last of them with my own two hands. With that very action, our contract had reached its supposed ultimatum. Everything that he had wished for had come to pass. The time had come to indulge myself in the meal that I had waited more than three and a half years for. His soul, so perfect and utterly tempting, was the reward for my faithful service and unshakable devotion to him. However, as I knelt before him and prepared to take this offering, I came to a startling realization. I had no desire to be the end of him. I could not bring myself to devour his soul.

I had failed at keeping my distance from him. Somewhere along the way, I had come to care very deeply for my young master. I knew that I loved him. This was not a new realization, but the effect it had on me at that time was startling. I had known for some time that, eventually, I would take his soul. That was the agreement that was part of our contract. I have never before gone against a contract or simply walked away. Those words are incredibly deceptive, making it sound as if such a thing is easy to do. It is not. However, there was one thing that I realized at that time which left me with no other option. His existence meant more to me than my own selfish ideals, which had gone unshattered for centuries.

I made my decision with surprising ease. If I could not take his soul, I also knew that I could not remain in his service. His life, so colored with pain and darkness, would only be further corrupted by my presence at his side. My departure would not leave him without protection. When I had gone, I knew that the other servants would watch over him. I drafted a letter to Tanaka, containing some flimsy excuse for my departure. I no longer remember what it was. My young master would be safe, taken care of. He would be alive.

That very night, I went to his room long after he had gone to sleep. I spent more than an hour just watching him as he slept. When I had waited as long as I dared, I leaned close to him and smelled his hair. I pressed a kiss to his forehead. And then I left. That night, that moment, is what I regret most. Leaving him was far more difficult than anything I have done before. For someone who has lived as long as I have, that statement is no small thing.

It was not possible to destroy the contract that he and I made. Even my blatant violation of the terms we had agreed upon would not void the agreement. Our contract was eternal, and so too were the signs of it. He probably carried the mark of our contract until the day he died. The mark of our contract is still visible on the back of my left hand. Even then, there was one thing that I could do to sever some of the obligations that the contract entailed. I cut off the connection that it afforded us and closed the small part of my mind that would hear him when he called for me. I knew he would. When he woke and found me gone, when he realized that I was not running an errand or fixing tea. I did not want to have to hear his voice as he wondered why I did not come to his side the instant that he called for me. I did what I thought best. I tried to forget the young earl that I once served.

It has only been within the past year, since my new master and I formed a contract, that I decided to find out whatever became of Ciel Phantomhive. So much time had passed, even for one such as myself, that I did not expect the pain of finding out about his death. I had not deluded myself into thinking that he would still be alive. However, I was surprised and saddened to discover that he had passed away only two years after I left his side. Even if I had been there, there would have been nothing that I could to do save him. No matter how faithful or skilled, there would have been nothing that any of his servants would have been able to do to save him from the assassin that took his life. Pneumonia. Humans are so fragile.

_____

A year ago, I was summoned accidentally by a man possessed by desperation. Mugged by someone carrying a large gun and not much common sense, John Anderson was dying while lying in pile of rotting food and refuse. He is my master now. His contradicting ideals of class and filth intrigued me at first. Now, however, I see him for what he is - a disgusting creature barely worthy of being called a man. I have seen thousands of people, taken their souls in exchange for whatever happiness I can offer them. Few have been as foolish as this one. John Anderson has only one idea of happiness. Money. His dying desire was not to live, or for the safety of a loved one. He did not want revenge, or even care what became of his assailant. He was entirely concerned with his wallet. His wish was for extensive wealth. Money is the most foolish of all the requests you could make of one such as myself. It is so fleeting and utterly meaningless, much like his life. I occasionally wonder if he even fully comprehends our contract. Most masters insist on calling me one thing or another, a last piece of control before their existence is gone. Mr. Anderson did not. He instructed me to use whatever name I desired, for he could not be bothered with deciding on something to call me. I do, for I am still Sebastian Michaelis.

Every aspect of his life shows the same callous carelessness. He works by day as a trader on Wall Street. By night, he fills himself with the entertainment of drugs and women. While wealth may be his goal, he frequently spends more money than he makes. I am uncertain whether that is stupidity at work or some insane, ingenious attempt to avoid the contract he and I have formed. Occasionally, I am also humiliated for his personal enjoyment. I detest him.

The world all around me has made amazing changes in the past one hundred and twenty-two years. Yet, at the same time, things are still exactly the same. The carriages have been replaced by cars, the newspaper boys with sidewalk vendors, but cities will always still feel like cities. The streetsu of New York City are just as busy this morning as the streets of London a century previous. People still go about their business and pay no mind to others.

This morning, the sounds of construction and cars highlight my journey into an unfamiliar section of the city. As part of my duties to Mr. Anderson, I bring him coffee and pastries from his favorite bakery each morning. He does not believe that I am capable of creating them myself. His tastes are very particular, and there is only one brand that he will accept. Yet, this morning, the bakery that he prefers is closed. Even I cannot do anything about that. There are no other branches of that particular shop, so I am risking catching hell by going to a different bakery to place my order.

I turn in through the set of double doors and join the queue of other customers. There are at least a dozen people ahead of me. Apparently, my torture will be drawn out this morning. I dislike coffee shops. They smell of artificial vanilla and cheap, mass produced cinnamon. There is nothing tasteful or thoughtful in them or the products that they sell. They are every bit as shallow as the customers who buy from them.

Even though the coffee shop is a quiet place, the crowd that stands in line still seems loud in my ears. All of these tiny cafes seem to be the same. I pass the time spent waiting in line by observing the other customers. Humans are intriguing creatures. Watching them gives me some small enjoyment, at least from observing the variety. Idly, I find myself wondering what sort of punishment I will have to endure for this brand substitution. I watch the punk rocker in front of me and the elderly couple seated in the corner. No amount of distraction can stop the sound that I hear at the corner of my consciousness.

At the counter, currently placing their order and standing just out of sight, there is a customer who sounds very familiar to me. For a moment, I am wondering why. Then, I realize what it is. The accent is not as thick as I remember, but that commanding tone of voice that knows exactly what it wants is what I recognize. It's not only familiar, it's the same. Impossibly so. It sounds identical to a voice that I have not heard in more than a century. That is an incredible coincidence in this world where everyone is an individual.

The customer receives their order and the line moves forward as they walk toward the exit. As soon as he breaks through the line that leads to the way out of the shop, I can feel my eyes widen in surprise. There, walking towards the door, is Ciel Phantomhive. Small, regal and proud, he looks exactly the same as he did on the day that I left. Right down to the black silk eye patch covering his right eye.


	2. Chapter 2

The clothing is different, but I have never been as certain of anything as I am of the fact that the person who just passed me is Ciel Phantomhive. Not someone who looks like him, or a boy who has a passing resemblance. I am absolutely positive that it was him. Impossible. Ridiculous. And yet true. Less than half a second has passed since he left the shop and I already know what I have to do. Turning, I step out of the line and follow him.

The jingle of the bells on the shop door barely register as I step out into the noisy world outside of the cafe. I look both directions, trying to discern which way he went. He is easy to spot amidst the light foot traffic on the sidewalk. The stores are not yet busy, and many are not even open. There are only a few people standing in between us as we both walk swiftly down the sidewalk. He has picked up a brisk pace, walking down the street as though he has done this same thing a hundred times before. While the distance between us is closing, he is still too far away for me to catch up without running. I do not know what I will do when I actually get to him. I simply know that I must.

Ahead of me, his pace speeds up and he raises his head to look towards an alley that he is coming up on. Ignoring all of the other pedestrians, he turns and vanishes around the corner. I follow him. The alley is long and narrow, brick walls on either side. There are a couple of dumpsters standing off to one side, but it is relatively clean and completely unoccupied except for the two of us.

"Please wait," I call out. I do not really expect him to stop. Not in this part of the city, not in this situation. No normal person would. However, his steps slow. One. Two. On the third, he turns slightly to look at me.

His face is colored with disbelief as he sees me standing there. The expression quickly turns into surprise and apprehension. I can barely hear it as he whispers my name. "Sebastian."

Any doubts that I might have had, any thoughts that it might not have been him, vanish instantly at the sound. The person in front of me is Ciel Phantomhive. But how? Everything that I found about him when I decided to look told me that he had died only a short while after my departure Nothing had said that he was alive, and most definitely not like this. Even though I followed him, I am every bit as surprised as he is. However, I think I am handling the shock better than he is. His hands are trembling on the white paper of the cafe bag that he has clutched between them. Quietly, I whisper, "Young master."

"So," he says. He takes a deep breath and lets it out roughly. Straightening himself and tightening his grip on the bag, he collects his thoughts and brushes off the look of surprise. His uncovered eye never leaves my own "After all this time, you've finally come to collect."

The century of time seems to make no difference to him. The first thing on his mind and out of his mouth is our unfinished business. I would have hoped for something else from him, if I had ever anticipated anything like this. If I wanted to take his soul, I would have. I had hoped that he would realize that when I left. Apparently, that hope was in vain. It would seem that there are many things I do not understand. "I am not here for your soul," I tell him. "However, young master, how is it that you are still... here?"

I cannot think of a polite way to ask that question. There are a dozen questions running through my mind, it was simply the one on the forefront at that moment. I do not understand this. I do not enjoy situations which I do not understand. I have never seen anything like this. When I left him, more than a century ago, I told myself that I would never see him again. Never speak to him again. I would not get involved again. At the moment, everything that I am thinking goes directly against that.

Behind him, the smooth shape of a black limousine pulls up in the alley that runs perpendicular to the one we are standing in. The young master flicks his eyes back towards it, looking at the tinted windows. He ignores my question completely when he looks back at me. "I have to leave."

He turns and opens the door of the vehicle, preparing to step inside. At this moment, I know that I have a decision to make. I do not know why he is still alive. However, I also realize that I don't really care about why. I feel an unexpected surge of relief at the simple fact that he is. If I so choose, I could let him vanish into that vehicle. I could allow him to drive away and I could keep the promise that I made to myself never to interfere with his life after I left. Or I can step in once more, even if only for a moment.

As soon as the thought comes to mind, my decision is made. I was deceiving myself the first time that I left. I do not think that I would care to do so again. Before he steps into the vehicle, I call to him again. "Just a moment."

His hand tightens on the car door, but he pauses and turns to look at me. The fear from earlier is no longer visible on his face. In its place, there is uncertainty and reluctance. I cannot tell if the reluctance stems from wanting to leave or wanting to stay. The expression is a momentary weakness and it is quickly replaced with a look of feigned indifference. "If you are not here for my soul, then we have no business to conclude, demon."

He regards me coolly for a moment, waiting for my response. I don't know what response to give, but I do know the outcome that I desire. I bow to him, placing a hand over my heart as I have not done for more than a century. "As your former servant, I would like to request a chance to speak with my master."

The formality of the words feels out of place in the modern world. If I have once again come across my young master, despite my intentions to stay away, I would like to have a little longer to speak with him. Our contract is still intact, even though I have disregarded his orders for so long. Even though I abandoned him. Despite my negligence, I will follow whatever decision he makes now.

He watches me, as if looking for something. Whatever that is, I cannot tell. I cannot even fathom his thoughts. A few moments pass, and I wonder if he is simply going to leave without saying another word. Instead, he inclines his head slightly. Slowly, he responds, "All right. I have to leave now. When?"

"Would tonight be a possibility?" My schedule is empty, but I do not doubt that John Anderson will have some grief to give me. I am now running quite late. I cannot guarantee how long that will last, only that he would never allow it to cut into his evening. It is strangely uncomfortable to have to arrange an appointment with my former master. It doesn't feel natural. He doesn't speak, but he nods. I ask, "Is there somewhere that you would feel comfortable meeting, or would you like me to come to you?"

"I will come to you," he responds. It isn't a question. I pull a small memo pad from one of my pockets along with a small pen and quickly jot down the address of my apartment for him. I cross the distance between us and hold the paper out for him. Small fingers snatch it away from my gloves, careful not to touch. He gives me another long, burning look and then vanishes into the limousine. The soft purr of the engine is the only warning I get before it drives off. I am left standing in the alley, wondering what has just happened.

John Anderson is not an imposing man. He resembles a toad. Short, overweight and balding, he glares at me over thickly rimmed glasses as I stand in his dining room. His gaze switches from myself to the pink and white bags and cups that I have brought him from the cafe. Sniffing, he makes a disgusted face in their direction. "You're late."

"I am sorry, master," I say as I bow lightly. "There was quite a wait at the bakery."

"Quite a wait?" He spits as he talks, flecks of saliva landing on his dining table. "There are no excuses, you beast. You should have been there earlier if there was a wait! And what the hell are these?"

His thick hands sweep across the table, knocking the cups and the bags to the floor. The contents spill out across the marble. I stand there passively and let him scream. He is becoming quite red in the face. "This isn't what I asked for! You're completely incompetent. I don't know why I even bother, you piece of shit. Why the fuck didn't you bring me the usual?"

"Most unfortunately, your preferred bakery is closed temporarily due to a problem with the health department," I tell him.

"There are no excuses! You, of all people... fuck that, you're not a person," he spits, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket. He lights it and takes a drag. "For something like you, that shouldn't be a problem. I don't know why I keep you around."

"Even though I am a demon, there are some things which even I cannot change." I loathe this man. There are few people who draw my ire the way that he does, and yet he and I are bound together in a contract. I am sorely tempted to end things here and now. I wonder if he is even worth devouring Demons do not get ill, but I suspect that he still might manage to give me food poisoning.

Staring at his cigarette, he asks, "Do you have it?"

"Of course," I respond. I pull a sheet of paper out of the pocket in my slacks. Handing it over, I step away from him. Every morning, along with the customary pastries and coffee, I also give him a list of the trades and transactions that he will need to make to ensure that he continually builds wealth. It is not as though I am unaccustomed to easier ways of building wealth, but my master prefers to do so through his chosen career. Since my arrival, he has not lost money on the stock market even when making abysmally poor decisions of his own.

Mr. Anderson fists the paper in his sausage-like fingers and looks it over "Fine. Get out of my apartment. Keep your phone on."

"Very well," I say, bowing and turning to leave. He always tells me to leave the phone on, but nothing ever comes of it. He knows that he could call me through the contract if he really felt like it. Thankfully, he has not felt that need.

The walk from my master's apartment to my own is forty seven blocks. He purposefully rented a unit that would keep me as far away from him as he considered practically possible. I could take a cab and save myself the walk, or even travel faster by my own natural abilities, but I find the walk pleasing. The weather is crisp and beautiful, even for this time of year. It is not an imposition and it will give me ample time to consider the events from this morning. They weigh heavily on my mind.

I have lived a very long life, but even I have never encountered something like this. Humans are mortal creatures. They live short lives, never more than one hundred and twenty years even in the extreme. They get sick. They age. And yet, this morning, I found that Ciel Phantomhive has not died Not only that, he has not aged even a day since I last set eyes on him. I truly do not understand.

At my apartment building, I let myself in and walk up the six flights of stairs that lead to my floor. Once inside, I close the door behind me and lean back against it. Reaching up, I pull off the thin cotton gloves that I wear even now and let them fall to the floor. Holding my left hand up, I examine the mark of the contract seal. It is different than it was when I was only contracted with Ciel Phantomhive. After all, every contract shows up on this same hand. John Anderson has added new striations, new lettering and new markings to create an intricate pattern of black lines in my skin.

When I left my former young master, I told myself that I would never see Ciel Phantomhive again. That is why I took my time on that last evening and allowed myself those last few meaningless moments at his side. It was my decision and it was inevitable. I knew that he would age. I knew that he would die.

And yet, he didn't.

This situation now is entirely unprecedented. Even more so now that he has agreed to meet with me, to speak with me. What do you say to the master you abandoned, to the soul that you spared? I do not have the answer to that question. However, I need to know why my young master did not age. I need to know why everything that I found told me that he was dead when he is anything but that. I cannot lie to myself, however. The mystery bothers me greatly, yes, but that isn't the real reason that I wanted to speak with him. I have missed his presence.

For now, I will settle for trying to learn more about this situation with the only resource that I have at my disposal in my apartment. I walk through my home and sit down at the computer that resides on a desk in my bedroom. Opening an internet browser, I begin to look for information. The last time that I looked into any of this, I discovered that Earl Ciel Phantomhive died of pneumonia in 1892. Now, I wonder what other inaccuracies might exist in the information online.

Mentions of his name online are few and far between. Information about him is even more scarce. The most I am able to find are references to the establishment and progression of Funtom Company, his most public endeavor. One website even has a photograph of him with all of the household servants, myself included. I remember the photo. It was taken at his fiancée's insistence. How very nostalgic, though I do not care to have a photograph like that of myself online. Following the website's lead, however, I go to the main website of Funtom Company.

Even after my young master's supposed demise, Funtom Company did not decline in sales or expansion. That is why they are now the third largest children's toy company in the world. I had never wondered how the company had continued to progress after his death. Ciel Phantomhive was the reason that the company thrived. Only a child knows what other children truly want If my young master is still alive, then perhaps he still has his hand in the business.

A history page for the company makes only a passing mention of my young master. Instead, it cites his father as the founder of the company. A list of previous company presidents indicates that from 1892 until his death in 1904, Tanaka took care of the business as the head of the company. A sensible choice. I greatly respected the man for his capabilities with business, people and matters of safety. That is why I entrusted my young master to his care when I had gone. After that, however, the trail seems to run cold. There is no additional information to be gleaned, aside from the fact that the presidency has changed hands every three or four years like clockwork since Tanaka's passing. Currently, all business operations are being overseen by one Frederick Randall. There is no photo provided. Everything about the company and the people that run it seems vague.

I have done the best that I can do without going directly to the company for information, and I find that unnecessary. My curiosity has not been appeased, but I will wait. There is nothing to be done for it. Somehow, my young master is alive and well at the age of 135.

The hours have passed and the day has started to turn to evening. The sun is setting as I read through another volume of classic literature that can be found around the apartment. It is not my typical choice of pastime, but it suits my tastes today. I am not used to having this much time to spend on myself. The knock at my door comes as a welcome interruption. I slide the book onto the coffee table and look at the small cell phone next to it before I walk to the door. Putting my hand on the knob, I open it.

Ciel Phantomhive is standing in my doorway. He is dressed differently than he was this morning. Khakis and a navy blue sweater look tastefully casual on him. He looks very wary of me.

"Please come in," I say, sweeping my arm towards the interior of the apartment. He looks past me, uncertain. I can remember his first assumption from this morning. It's easy to guess what he is thinking. "If I had wanted to harm you, I would have already done so."

He hesitates for a moment longer and then walks inside. The front door of my apartment opens on my living room, sparsely decorated by Mr. Anderson. I have not felt the compunction to change the decor. A couch and two chairs provide some seating around the coffee table. Moving quietly, I sit on the couch and wait to see if he will follow my example. He does, seating himself in the chair that is both furthest from me and yet closest to the front door. I wonder if I should offer him something to eat or drink. I do keep food in the apartment, though only for show. I have never managed to figure out what humans find so delicious about processed and packaged food.

Before I can say anything, he speaks. "So, why now?"

"What do you mean?" I respond, curious.

"Why did you wait until now? Why are we sitting here and talking like this?"

I gather that he has also been wondering about our meeting, but there seems to be more to his questions than meets the eye. His assumption that I had come to take his soul, his questions about timing. Is it possible that he believes that I had vanished with the intention of returning? Humans are sentimental creatures, but I had never thought that he might hold that sort of idea for very long. Even for his age, when I left, he had always been rather sensible. He had been strong, in his own way. I never would have guessed him to be that fickle. My brows crease lightly together as I consider that. "I am afraid that I do not understand."

"You've been gone for so long, Sebastian. Don't pretend that you don't know what or why I am asking, he says. He takes a breath and then looks at me a bit more directly. "Is that even your name any more, demon?"

"I am still Sebastian Michaelis," I answer quietly, "but I truly do not know what you are asking."

He huffs, unhappy at having to be more direct. "Why did you ask to see me? You could have found me at any time if you wanted." He pauses and looks away, quietly adding, "I don't understand why you left in the first place."

Try as I might, over the past century, I had not been able to keep myself from wondering what had become of him. It would seem that the same is true of him, as well. I can only imagine what that must have been like for him. I will confess that I had not stopped to consider the parallels to other things he had gone through when I left. Perhaps I should have. Very few things in his life were permanent. I was just another inconsistent addition to his existence. If I had stopped to consider orders he had given me, I might have realized that. To never leave his side. It had not been an order given out of consideration for his safety. That was one of many orders I have since broken. I had my reasons. Looking at him evenly across the room, I meet his gaze without emotion when he looks up at me. "I had no conscious intention of returning to you. However, when I saw you in the coffee shop this morning, I was surprised. As for why I asked to speak with you, it was because I wanted to do so. I was curious."

"Surprised? Curious?" His voice is skeptical as he arches an eyebrow. The skepticism turns into a frown as he thinks this over. Realization strikes and he sits forward slightly, frowning. Taking on a note of disbelief, he asks me, "You didn't know, did you? That I was still like this.""No," I respond honestly. "I did not know. I was under the belief that you had died some time ago. I had hoped that you might explain how this was possible."

"I've had so much time to wonder about that," he laughs, entirely without humor. "And here I have looked over my shoulder for years. I wondered when you were going to come and collect your dues. Wasn't that the entire point of our contract, so that you could eat my soul?"

"It's ironic, isn't it?" He pauses, falling silent as he thinks. His eyes are fixed on nothing, drifting around the room as he considers the generic decorations that cover the walls and furnishings. "The contract might be why, I guess. I don't know. You would know better than I would. I figured you would know, that you did know. Or that you had done it on purpose. I always thought that you'd come back when you got hungry enough. I'm guessing they don't have Tupperware for souls." He smiles as if he is making a joke. I don't find it amusing. I have no idea how to respond to that. Slowly, he looks back towards me. Reaching up with one hand, he pulls the eye patch away from his face. It falls loosely into his hand and he looks at me with both eyes. The contract seal burns in his right eye as clearly as the day that it was made. "Why did you put this here, Sebastian? Wasn't it so that you would be able to track me down no matter what happened, no matter where I went? Our contract was completed a long time ago, you just need to finish it."

His words cut into me like knives. His words, while inquiring, aren't really a question. They're an accusation. Is there a possibility that he is right, that my failure to complete my end of contract has somehow frozen him exactly as he was at the time that it was fulfilled? I honestly do not know. Most of my masters have not survived a day past the completion of their contract, let alone a century. I do not have any experience on which to base an opinion. Regardless, can it actually be that he wishes that I would have taken his soul? That he actually wanted to stop existing? I can't even imagine, though I have met people for who that is true. Perhaps he simply did not want me to leave any more than I did. That doesn't change the fact that his soul was the original reason that I offered to enter into the contract with him. I tell him so. "That was the original intent, yes. However, you have nothing to fear from me now."

"Why is that?" He looks straight at me as he stands up. His voice gets louder and rougher with each word, unfitting for one so small. "Why am I here? Why did you leave, Sebastian?"

He isn't looking at me as he paces around the room. I am not certain if he actually wants me to answer, or if he is simply upset to the point that he is talking simply to talk. I stand, wanting to do something even if he isn't actually wanting a response. What could I do to calm him down? I stand and walk towards the kitchen. "Let me get you something to drink, young master."

"Don't call me that!" He rounds on me just as I reach the doorway that leads into the dining area. For being nearly a foot and a half shorter than I am, he manages to be a rather imposing presence for a human as he glares up at me intently. "You left. You never came back. You never listened when I called for you. Don't pretend that I am your master when you clearly do not think so. Why, Sebastian? Tell me why you left."

At this moment, the most nonsensical sensation is taking hold of me. I am quite irrationally happy about the fact that he is yelling at me. I never expected to find him alive. I never expected to be quite so pleased about that discovery, either. And yet, he is standing in front of me and berating me for my failings and it is the most delightful thing that I have experienced in years simply because he is alive. While perhaps not the ideal scenario, I am grateful that I have had this opportunity to see him like this. I had forgotten what it felt like to be around him like this, even if he is quite unhappy with me. He has not changed even with all the time that has passed. That fact makes me glad.

At the same time, I am quite ashamed of myself. My leaving did none of the things that I had hoped. If anything, I fear that it may have marked him in a way that I neither desired nor intended. I knew that he would be upset by my departure, but I never expected it to weigh on him for as long as it has. Certainly not for a century. That I had not intended. It was a miscalculation on my part, but this... unintended consequence was not foreseeable, even by myself. I did not, and still do not, have any desire to see him in pain. For that, I must apologize. He is watching me even as he waits for a response. Slowly, I sigh. "I left because I no longer desired to bring an end to your life. I am sorry if that displeases you."

"If it displeases me?" His voice is incredulous, even as he yells. One of his hands is fisted in my shirt, holding the fabric to keep me from moving away as he tells me exactly what is on his mind. "My life was... is... inconsequential. My entire existence should have been forfeit the moment that my revenge was complete. No, before that. The moment you and I agreed to the contract. I finished my half of that. Taking my soul was your part. I never wanted to live this way for this long. Tell me why, Sebastian!"

My mask of complacency is slipping and I find myself smiling. Amazing. More than one hundred and twenty years have passed since the night that I left, and yet right now it seems as if no time has passed at all. Nothing has changed, even though everything has. To think that this one small human has had this much of an effect on me is remarkable. I do not mind. I have missed it. This anger, this defiance. This is why I came to care for him the way that I did. I have already broken our covenant and soiled our agreement. I suppose that telling him the truth, as I always have, cannot make things so much worse. Unable to resist the temptation, I reach up and brush several strands of his slate hair out of his eyes and look down at the contract seal that stares back at me. "I left because I had come to care for you more than a demon - or a butler - ever should, my lord."

For a long moment, he stares at me as his mind processes what I have said to him. I can see the understanding sink into his eyes as he glances at the hand that I have run across the side of his face. All of the anger that was in his expression a moment ago is gone, replaced by something closer to hurt. He takes a step back and lets go of my shirt. Then, her pulls that hand back and slaps me. The sting of it is nothing more than I deserved. Even so, the strike is weak. His hand falls down to my chest and he strikes me again, yelling at me as he does so. Insults, curses. The phrases are barely coherent as he pounds his fist against my chest. I let him. Each strike weakens even as his voice becomes garbled and he collapses against my chest, still muttering under his breath as he leans against me. I can smell salt in the air even as I feel his hands clenching into fists against my chest.

Quietly, I ask, "Young master, are you crying?"

"No!" The muffled response is much clearer than his incoherent cursing, even if it's partially obscured by my clothing. He hasn't told me off for addressing him as young master. I wish that there was something I could do to make this better. Very slowly, I reach my arms up and wrap them around his body to try and comfort him. He doesn't push me away.

"I am sorry," I say, "that I caused you pain."

"Idiot!" The insult is surprisingly loud. He isn't crying any more. Slowly, he moves so that his forehead rests against my chest, no longer burying his face in the fabric. I can feel the heat of him through it. Very quietly, he continues. "You weren't... the only one who felt that way."

My heart constricts as I hear the words. "What do you mean, young master?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He tilts his head back to look at me. The skin around his eyes is slightly reddened from the brief spat of tears. The emotions on his face are entirely unguarded, even as I lean closer to him almost without meaning to. His face is less than an inch from my own. I can taste his breath. He sighs and takes a step back, putting some distance between us. "It's late and I should go. I was only supposed to be here for a few minutes, anyway."

"Young master," I say in acknowledgement.

He reaches into a pocket and removes a small piece of paper, which he then hands to me. "If you ever regret leaving my service, call that number."

Without another word, he turns and vanishes out the front door of my apartment. The piece of paper in my palm is plain, white and high quality paper board that is roughly the same size and shape as a business card. On one side there is a phone number printed in a plain, professional font. I will never understand the fascination that humans have with telephones. There is nothing else written on the card.

I should call that number if I ever regret leaving his service? I have regretted that decision since the day that I made it. However, I have never thought that it would be wise or even possible to rectify that particular mistake. And there are complications.

The small black cell phone on the coffee table buzzes, accompanied by the shrill electronic sound of the ring tone. John Anderson is calling.


	3. Chapter 3

The sky outside is finally turning black as I walk down the sidewalk toward John Anderson's apartment. My master called seven minutes ago and requested my presence in his home. Once again, he has decided to entertain guests. I take it that I am to be part of the entertainment. As he requested, I changed into more colorful clothing than I usually wear. He detests my preference for black and white suit ensembles. Between my current and former masters, I haven't had a day this busy in nearly a year.

My young master. Only a few moments before, he was standing in front of me. I can still remember the sound of his voice. Even with whatever I may have to do tonight, I hope that thoughts of him will distract me. I have no doubt that I will call the number that he gave me. There are complications, it is true, but complications do not change the fact that I have already made my decision. I would be lying if I said that I did not wish to serve him once more.

Even being in his presence for the short while that he remained in my apartment, I was reminded of how very much I truly enjoyed being his butler. I am quite used to playing different roles, a new life for each master I serve. Very rarely do I actually find myself looking forward to the duties that I perform for them. While I was in his service, I truly became a butler befitting the Phantomhive family. At some point, it had ceased to be simply an act. I must admit, that sort of existence is not a poor one.

The complication that exists, the very one whose home I am swiftly walking toward at this moment, is John Anderson. While I admit that I wish to return to the service of my young master, I will admit that I am conflicted by the idea of serving him while still bound to Anderson. While difficult to explain, I feel as though it would be disrespectful to my young master if I could not give him my full attention at any time that he might require it. It feels inappropriate to serve both of them at once. Demons do not form relationships in the way that humans do. Therefore, I cannot say for certain, but I believe that I am beginning to understand the feeling of infidelity. Perhaps it is truly impossible to serve two masters.

Even if I was to return to the service of Ciel Phantomhive, I am aware that things have changed. I have no idea what his lifestyle is like now, or even what he has gone through in the past century. The lifestyle of the noblesse of Britain is dead. In it's place there exists a less elegant world of businesses, scandals and false fortunes. That doesn't really matter to me. I am more concerned with the changes between myself and my young master. After more than one hundred and twenty years, I wonder if it is really possible for me to return to the master that I abandoned. I have little doubt that trust would be a fragile thing for a very long while with him. My young master has always been very intelligent, but never very trusting.

Very honestly, I expected him to leave after what I told him earlier. The true reason behind my motivation for leaving. Even though he knows that I cared, and still care, for him more than I should, he has still asked for me to call him. Perhaps I have been the foolish one in this case. My mind replays the last few words of our conversation and I can still hear him telling me that I was not the only one who felt that way.

Even before I left his side, I knew that he was attracted to me. Part of a demon's deceit is their charm and appeal. I am quite used to dealing with that reaction from other people. However, it was unacceptable for my young master to feel that way about myself for any number of reasons. Social standards, his fiancée and my desire for him to live a full and normal life were some of the many reasons that I chose not to act on that. He was young. At that age, it was normal for him to feel that way about someone. I was not surprised that I was the target of those feelings. However, the fleeting emotions of teenagers are even less predictable than the weather. Humans are fickle creatures and they are even more easily distracted than most demons. When I left, I had expected him to move on and forget. Eventually, he would marry Lady Elizabeth and realize his potential as Earl Phantomhive. I would become little more than a memory to the boy who I once called master. I never expected him to have some residual care to that end. Then again, I had not thought that I would still feel as strongly about him as I so very clearly do. It would seem that I have underestimated both my young master and myself.

I can see the brick facade of John Anderson's overpriced apartment building coming quickly into view. Quickly, I make my way inside and head up to his apartment. Even two floors away, the music is loud enough to shake the walls. Loud, tinny and having no class whatsoever. How very like my master. The elevator comes to a standstill and I make my way out into the hallway, crossing the distance to his front door in an instant. There is no need for me to knock; the door is already open several inches. Inside, the stench of alcohol, drugs and sweat permeates the air. A large crowd of people inhabits the space. I never would have imagined that so many people could have fit into such a relatively tiny area.

Pushing my way through the pulsing crowd, I search the apartment for John Anderson. There is barely enough room to walk. I can't hear my own thoughts over the din of conversation and music. Several minutes of searching reveal my master's location. I find him in his bedroom. The door stands wide open, but the lights inside are turned off. The mattress of his bed is bare. All of the coverings for it have been tossed on the floor beside it. He lays on top of the bare faux-silk mattress top in nothing but an unfastened pair of trousers, two mostly naked women draped over top of him. One is a stranger, but I recognize the other as a cheap prostitute that Mr. Anderson favors. They smell of sex and urine. Disgusting. At least they are breathing. For a moment, I had wondered if he had called me here to dispose of someone he had accidentally killed. His lifestyle is degrading and filthy to me.

"Mr. Anderson," I say, trying to get his attention. On the bare bed, he stirs. Several moments pass as he makes his way to consciousness. As he sits up, he pushes the women off of him, snorting indignantly as one of them protests.

He tucks himself into his pants and zips the fly, wiping one hand on the leg of the trousers. "You're late, and what the fuck are you wearing?"

"My apologies, master," I say. "No more than twenty minutes has passed since I received your call. I felt that the clothing was appropriate and it is also colorful, as per your request."

Anderson eyes me cautiously. I do not particularly enjoy wearing colorful clothing. However, as he wished, I am wearing a green shirt and khakis. Try though I might, I could not bring myself to wear what he would consider party clothing. He had not specified what style of clothing to wear, at any rate. Apparently, his problem with my manner of dress is not major enough for him to insist on having me change. Finally, he runs a hand through what little hair is on his head. "Fine. Get to work."

"What would you like for me to do, master?" I ask.

"Whatever. Entertain the guests. Keep them happy. Whatever the fuck they want. And I do mean whatever they want." He snorts heavily and then swallows as if he has just discovered something stuck in his throat. "You better not fuck this up."

How eloquent. I offer a short bow. "As you wish."

Turning, I walk back through the bedroom door and head toward his living room. Behind me, I can hear him lifting himself off of the bed. The springs in his mattress groan with relief at no longer having to support his weight.

He shuffles forward, reaching me just as I enter the living room. His thick hand lands on my shoulders, fingers barely able to wrap them due to the difference in our height. Or perhaps due to his lack of fitness. "Hey, everybody!" His voice is loud, but he still only manages to attract the attention of five or six people standing nearby. That is apparently enough. "I've brought you all a little party favor. He's up for anything, so have fun!"

His hand slides to my back and he pushes me forward. I allow myself to move a couple of steps. The people around us laugh lightly. There are a couple of raucous hoots and hollers. I turn to look at John Anderson, but he is already sauntering back to his sleeping quarters, a bottle of something alcoholic in one hand.

The crowd returns to their meaningless conversations. For the most part, my entrance goes unnoticed even with the introduction. Then, out of the crowd, I see a woman wandering up to me. She's abnormally thin, nearly to the point of being anorexic. That would make perfect sense, and it would go nicely with the track marks on her arms and the bruises that I can see on her neck and wrists. Her scanty clothing does little to hide them. As she walks up, she makes a show of flipping her bottle blond hair back and forth. "Hey there, handsome."

"Good evening," I respond, ever courteous. Though, in honesty, there is little need for courtesy here.

She places a hand on my arm, trying to steady herself as she totters back and forth on her too-high heels. "You're not like John's usual crowd, are you? You're classy. Real quality-like. What're you doing in a place like this?"

She smells of vomit and cocaine. How positively vile. I smile charmingly. "I am here to keep people such as yourself entertained."

"Oh, is that so?" She moves the hand that was on my arm to my chest, stroking red fingernails over the fabric of my shirt. "Well, I could use a little entertainment. You up for a little fun, hot stuff? I'll bet you're packing..."

"Of course," I say. Taking hold of her arm, I turn and lead her back down the hall toward the spare bedroom.

Despite the fact that my apartment is only mediocre in the level of its furnishings, it happens to have a state of the art shower. I had it put in after the first such incident at one of John Anderson's parties. The hot water is relaxing even for one such as myself. After an hour underneath of it, however, I still feel like there is dirt stuck to my skin. The events that occur at those parties disgust me to a point that I would probably find remarkable if I were not personally involved. Over the centuries, I have corrupted thousands of bodies and souls with my hands and lips. I cannot even count the number. And yet, the things that I have been made to do in the name of John Anderson are among some of the worst.

However, that is done now. Night has passed. It's morning. I have already given Mr. Anderson his stock tips and pastries for the day. Light creeps through the window of my bathroom as I turn off the shower and step out onto my bath mat, toweling myself dry. I do not bother with dressing in the bathroom. A quick glance toward the wastebasket confirms that I have already disposed of the clothing from the previous night's activities. Leaving the bathroom door open to allow the steam to dissipate, I walk quickly to the bedroom.

The bed in my room isn't used frequently. When I feel the desire to sleep, I usually only allow myself an hour or two. It isn't as though I actually need the rest. However, I still make full use of the room. I towel my hair off as I look at the nightstand. The small black cell phone sits on the false cherry wood of the stand next to the white business card that my young master gave me yesterday. That innocent white card manages to capture my attention. Things such as that party would never have happened in the service of Ciel Phantomhive. Unexpectedly, I find myself missing his presence. There is no guarantee that I can make him as to when I can return to his service. However, I do want to see him.

I finish drying my hair and sit down on the bed, picking up the cell phone. Looking at the card, I dial the number and hit the green button to place the call. I press the phone to my ear. It rings twice, and then I hear a familiar voice at the other end. "Yes?"

"Young master," I say, "would it be possible for you to see me today?"

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes." Click. The line goes dead. Snapping the phone closed, I set it back down on my nightstand. I have had the phone for nearly a year, since just after John Anderson and I formed our contract. That is the first time that I have ever felt that it merited worth.

Fifteen minutes is not a long span of time, especially not for a demon. And yet, I find myself spending longer than necessary dressing and brushing my hair. Even so, the minutes tick slowly by as I wait for him. Then, there is a knock at the door. I walk through the apartment and pull it open. Once again, Ciel Phantomhive is standing in my doorway.

He walks through the door as I lift a hand to motion him inside. I can feel myself smiling. "Young master."

"Sebastian," he nods. For a long moment, the two of us stand there regarding one another. Yet again, I am struck by the uncanny feeling of seeing him in front of me after so long.

He isn't keeping his distance from me today. Instead, he is actually standing rather close to me. I am well aware that it's very rude to stare, but he doesn't seem to mind. He is looking at me every bit as intently as I am looking at him. Perhaps he is still suspicious of me. I feel as though it has been far too long since I have seen his face. I am tempted to reach up and brush the hair out of his eyes, but even then I know that I would not be able to see the mark of our contract. The eye patch is firmly in place today. However, I still find myself unable to resist touching him in some way. Bending slightly, I reach down and straighten the collar of his shirt. He takes a breath, but shows no other reaction to what I am doing.

After I finish, he asks, "What did you want to see me about?"

"You came all the way out here without even knowing that much?" I find that amusing.

"I just wanted to," he responds. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," I tell him. He looks up at me and then walks into the living room and sits down. Ever the gracious host, I figure I should at least offer him refreshments. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Yes." He pauses, and then finishes quietly. "... tea."

I offer him a short bow and then walk into the kitchen. My cupboards are not well stocked, only so much so that it might appear that someone lives here. Even so, I do keep loose leaf tea. I haven't really had a reason for it. I suppose that, for a demon, it is incredibly sentimental of me to keep something like that around. This is the first time that I have actually allowed previous contracts to affect my lifestyle. When I first entered into a contract with Ciel Phantomhive and began living in his manor house, I did not bring so much as a single personal belonging with me. And yet, here I find myself keeping such silly things as jasmine tea. I boil water and prepare the tea for my young master.

Returning to the living room, I hand him the cup and a saucer. Today, he is sitting in the chair nearest to the couch. I sit down on the couch seat closest to him. He lifts the tea cup delicately and sips at it. I take it that he hasn't been drinking much tea in the past century or so. His nose wrinkles slightly at the taste. "My apologies, young master. I am afraid the quality of tea has declined in the time that has passed."

"No," he shakes his head. "It tastes fine."

We sit in companionable silence for a long while. Eventually, curiosity gets the best of me. "Young master, I have a question."

"What is it?"

"I must admit that, after running into you yesterday morning, I became curious. I looked into information about yourself," I say. "I was wondering why everything that I find says that you died in 1892."

For a moment, he thinks about how to respond. "Tanaka was the first one who noticed that I wasn't aging. When he began to suspect that something was off, he looked at measurements from my tailors and photographs of myself. He thought very carefully before mentioning his suspicions to me. He had no explanation to offer, only the problem. It was a month before my sixteenth birthday and yet I hadn't aged a day since I was thirteen.

"In the terms of years, that short of a span of time isn't much to speak of, but even I knew that it wasn't normal. Tanaka wasn't the only one who had noticed. The Queen had mentioned it more than once. My appearance was causing rumors in the higher echelons of the social circles, especially when I appeared in public with Lizzy. Unlike myself, she was growing up quickly. She was a beautiful young woman. Toward the end, I looked even more like a small child when standing next to her.

"The rumors were actually causing problems for Funtom Company. We lost several business deals because of some story being passed around that I was terminally ill and that the company was about to go under. We decided in the space of a week that it would be best if I appeared to die. The company could continue on under Tanaka's guidance. I would simply wait elsewhere for a more opportune time to return and take the company back. It wasn't just the fact that I wasn't aging that did it. There was a string of assassinations that were happening at that point in time. Other people who worked for Her Majesty like I did were being killed. Queen Victoria provided the initial suggestion both for my safety and for the sake of the work that I did for her. We simply made it happen. It was merely coincidence that I became very ill around the same time. The bout of pneumonia provided the perfect cover story.

"After I had recovered, I left England and placed Tanaka in charge of the company. He remained the company president until very shortly before his death in 1904. I returned to England upon hearing of his illness. Even though I was twenty-eight at the time, he seemed unsurprised by my appearance. He told me before he died that he always knew there was something different about me."

"He was a remarkable man," I tell him.

"Yes, he was," he agrees. "After his death, I decided to take over the running of the company once more."

"I had wondered why the company heads changed so frequently. With any other company, I would have thought the business was unstable."

He raises an eyebrow. "Is it really that noticeable?"

"Yes," I say, "just a bit. There's something of a pattern to it."

He lifts the tea cup to his lips and takes a sip. "I'm surprised that you didn't notice the other pattern."

"Other pattern?"

He smiles, then. The barest upturning of rosy lips. "All of the company presidents, and subsequently my own false identities, have been named after people that you and I knew when we were both at the manor house. The current president is Frederick Randall. I do not think that Lord Randall would appreciate the fact that I have combined his name with that of his subordinate, but I don't think that Fred Abberline would have minded."

I find myself snickering at that. Even after all this time, it would appear that my young master is still a child in more than just his appearance. "That is very unexpected of you, young master."

He looks at me in a way which suggests that he knows exactly why I find it amusing. It's almost a glare. "It was easier than coming up with something completely new."

"Is that all that you have been doing in all this time?" I ask.

"For the most part, yes. I'm here in New York on business for the new office that is being built here. I travel between the major offices and London most of the time. I still do work for the British government, though things have changed since you were with me last. All governments have their secrets. I am simply one more for Britain to deal with. It's largely thanks to them that I am able to change identities so regularly." He sips his tea and goes silent.

It would seem that he has no intention of inquiring as to my whereabouts for the past century. I am actually rather relieved at that. It is not as though I have anything that I wish to hide from him. Rather, it is more the fact that I have done nothing of note. Nothing at all, really. The fact that it is only within the past year that I have entered into a new contract is evidence of my self-imposed asylum. "I am very glad to see that my young master has done so well in my absence."

Looking at me directly, he asks, "Have you thought about what I said yesterday?"

I do not need to ask what he means. Somehow, the conversation doesn't seem as casual now as it was. I wonder how I should respond. There are really no right answers in this situation. As always, I suppose that honesty is the best policy. "Young master, I have regretted my decision to leave since the very first night that I made that choice. However..."

He sits up a little straighter in his chair and watches me. "However?"

"There are complications."

"What sort of complications?" Confusion is easy to read on his face. I imagine that he has become quite used to dealing with unexpected situations in his lengthy time as the many presidents of Funtom Company. I suppose that I am also an unexpected situation.

I feel a strange reluctance to explain the situation with John Anderson. In all honesty, it would be very poor form to mention my other master in front of him. This is also an unprecedented situation for me. Perhaps showing him would be the best way. I pull my left hand to my lips and tug off the cotton glove that I put on out of habit. The glove comes away easily enough and I hold the hand up for him to look at.

Almost without seeming to realize it, he sets the tea cup and saucer down on the coffee table. Then, he reaches out and takes hold of my left hand and studies the contract mark on my skin. His fingers are warm on my palm. "It looks... different than I remember," he says. Then, as his eyes trace the lines, I can see him realize why it looks different. His voice is disbelieving as he makes a very accurate guess. "Sebastian, are you in another contract?"

"Yes." My answer is simple and my voice serious.

"I see." In an instant, his face turns unreadable. He sits back slightly in his chair, letting my hand fall from his fingers.

"Young master, are you all right?" I ask. Rather than replying directly, he simply nods. "Would you like another cup of tea?" I can see that his cup is empty. Again, he nods in response as he stares at the floor. I stand and take the cup and saucer from the coffee table in front of him.

It only takes a moment in the kitchen to prepare him a cup of tea. When I return to the living room, he is on his feet. Without looking at me, he says, "I need to leave."

"Why do you need to leave, young master?" I set the dishes smoothly down onto the coffee table and turn to him. He will not look at me, even when I take a step closer to him.

"Sebastian," he says quietly.

"Yes?"

"When you left, why didn't the mark in my eye go away?"

Looking at him now, I feel a very deep sense of regret for leaving his side. Whatever forces drove me to abandon him now drive me to do exactly the opposite. I have already made my decision. John Anderson's time is nearly up. When he is dead, I will return to my true master's side. Reaching up, I tug at the thin cords that hold his eye patch in place and let it fall to the floor. Even though he isn't looking at me, I dislike having that seal covered up when it isn't necessary. Softly, I tell him the truth. "Young master, even though I may leave your side and ignore your orders, the agreement between us is eternal. Neither you nor I have the power to destroy what we wrought."

I hate seeing him like this. It is a look I have only seen on his face a few times, and very soon after I always killed whatever caused that sadness. This time, there is nothing I can do to destroy the source of his pain. I know that I am the one responsible. For once, I feel ashamed of myself. Though I believed that what I had done was in his best interests, I have only succeeded in harming him. Placing my right hand over my heart, I sink down on one knee. My eyes are fixed at his feet as I address him. "Young master, I have neglected your orders and disregarded our contract for more than a century. This negligence has caused you pain. As your faithful servant, I sincerely regret my behavior. It is unbefitting of one that wishes to be a butler of the Phantomhive household.

"Though much time has passed and though I left your side, you have always been my young master. What can I do to atone for my shameful actions?"

My eyes do not lift from the ground as he takes two small steps forward. He places both hands on the sides of my face, guiding my gaze up to look at him. His expression is unreadable as he looks down at me. The mark of our contract nearly glows in his eye. Very slowly, he leans down and kisses me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little spice...

My young master's lips are warm as he kisses me. Ever so softly, he is pressing them to my own. I am surprised. However, the feeling of his fingertips on my jaw as he holds his face and the imagnetic feeling of his mouth have become the only thing that I am aware of right now. The touch is simple and unobtrusive. His mouth isn't moving against mine. Is he looking for a reaction, to see if I will push him away? I won't do that, especially not when I have just asked for his forgiveness. I press my lips back against his, giving in to the kiss. Reaching up with one hand, I touch his hair. At that small gesture, he leans his head into my touch and joins in the kiss. It's sweet, chaste and affectionate. The caress only lasts a moment before he pulls away. His eyes are serious as he regards me, still holding my face in his hands. I had asked him what I could do atone for my actions. He gives me his answer. "Don't leave. This time, don't leave me."

Looking at him as he says the words, I can see a hint of desperation in his eyes. He is not masking his expression right now. Instead, he is looking at me openly in a way that he only has once or twice before. He doesn't just want me to agree, to accept and tell him that I will never leave his side. He needs me to. I consider this as my fingers drift through the strands of his hair. I am quite tired of wandering aimlessly, going from master to master, even though the time I have spent away from him is relatively short. I want this. I will tell him that I will stay by his side. And then, I will do exactly as I say. "Yes, my lord."

His eyes soften as he hears the words. Unable to resist the temptation, I do something that I have wanted to do for more than a century. Leaning up, I capture his lips with my own. There is no hesitation as he presses into the touch, moving easily with me as he slides one of the hands that has been on my face down and wraps his arm around my neck. I reach up and wrap my own arms around his back and waist, pulling him closer to me. He lets me, stepping forward so that his body brushes against mine as I kneel before him.

More than a century has passed, and I relish the feeling of being this close to him. I realize that things have changed. Not only from when I first came to serve my master, but even in the time that has passed since I first spotted him in that coffee shop. Whatever happens now, I doubt we will ever be simply master and servant, or even master and demon, again. The barriers that kept us apart when I was simply his butler were eliminated the second he kissed me. Even a few months after our contract was first instated, I had begun to see him in a light that no demon should ever view their master. While he did remain simply that, the fact that I cared for him more than I should is why I left. I see no point in fighting those emotions now. Even if I had a mind to, it would be hard to deny that I have come to love him. He is warm and sweet in my arms. This feeling is very different from when I would carry him when he was injured. I am a demon who entered into a contract which required me to devour Ciel Phantomhive's soul upon completion. I will never do that. It would seem that, for once, I have lied. I am glad.

My tongue runs across his bottom lip. His mouth opens against mine and I deepen the kiss. I straighten up slightly as he pushes closer to me. Kneeling in front of him, I am nearly the same height on him that he is on myself when we are both standing. The reversal is interesting. One of his hands reaches up to bury itself in my hair. I can feel his fingers running through the strands as he fists the other hand in the material of my shirt. I am smiling against his mouth as my own hands tighten in his clothing, wanting to bring him closer. In more ways than just this, I do not want to let him slip through my fingers again. Were it possible, I would lose myself in the taste of his mouth. The feel of our tongues dancing is addictive, a distraction from the events of the previous night.

The kiss ends and he pulls back just far enough that his lips brush my own as he whispers my name. He is panting. Very slowly, his hand slides out of my own hair and he releases the grip that he has on my shirt. I watch as he takes two steps backwards, his eyes never leaving mine. He wants me to watch what he is doing. He reaches up with both hands and begins unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers work slowly on the fabric, still not completely confident as he pushes each button through it's hole. My breath catches in my throat as I watch the expanse of pale skin that is being revealed as the shirt falls open. The invitation is obvious, even as he reaches the last button and lets his hands fall to his side. He is blushing, but his eyes never leave my own. I can tell that he is waiting for my reaction.

Pulling the glove off of my right hand, I reach up and run my fingertips across the side of his face. My hand drifts down his neck and across his chest, sliding across his soft skin the entire way down until I hit his belt line. He is beautiful. He is mine. My fingers retrace their steps back up his body. Instead of touching his face, however, I slide my hand across the fabric of his shirt and down to his bare hand. Picking it up, I bring it to my lips and kiss it. Then, I place it on my shoulder and wrap one arm around his back. My other arm reaches under his backside and I scoop him up as I stand. Still looking him in the eye, I tell him, "I have missed you, young master."

"I..." His direct gaze finally breaks and he looks away from me. That blush on his face darkens further. "... missed you, too."

Those words have me smiling even as I walk toward the bedroom with him in my arms. This isn't a matter of romanticism, fantasy or even cliche. I have every intention of taking advantage of the invitation he extended to me. My bed simply provides the most room in which to do so. Even though the intentions are different, this situation is oddly similar to the countless times that I carried him to bed in his own mansion. The similarities end when I place him on the bed, following so that I hover over top of him. He looks up at me, unblinking. Slowly, I lean down and let my lips brush across his. My eyes watch the shadows that my hair casts as it drifts across his pale skin, illuminated by the sunlight that is drifting through my curtain windows. I press kisses to his skin, drifting away from his mouth to nibble at his jaw and then up to his ear. "Young master..."

I have not lied to either of us. I have truly missed his presence. Perhaps it is foolish, but I feel now as if I wasted the time that I spent with him more than a century ago. This is what I wanted to do before I left him, before I made the mistake I still regret. Now, I will devote myself to memorizing every inch of his lovely skin. Underneath of me, he whimpers as my lips and tongue travel across his skin. From his neck to his shoulders and down slender arms. I am going to take my time enjoying him.

His fingers still bear his family and signet rings. Pressing kisses to the palms of his hands, I nibble on his fingertips. From there, I find my way to his chest. One of his hands tangles itself once more in my hair, pulling the strands even as I press my mouth to his body. I can hear my master's heart beating. Never would I have thought that I would be so happy at such a simple thing.

The sounds leaving his lips are a pleasure in and of themselves. He is whispering my name as I lick and nip at his skin. His breath catches in his chest whenever I find a sensitive spot. My fingers explore every inch of him that my lips have already covered, dancing across his arms and chest. I dip my tongue into his navel just as my dark nails scratch across his nipples. He cries out, arching into my touch. I wonder if he can feel me smiling against his skin. I press one last kiss to his stomach, just above where his trousers begin. Then, I pull back to hover over him once more.

My young master gave me an invitation when he unbuttoned his shirt. I accepted. However, even though I am a demon, I do not have any desire to rush this. Not out of any concern for some supposed virtue of his, though. Even when I served as his butler, I knew what he had gone through before he called me. I also have no idea what he may have done in the interim since I left. It doesn't really matter. No, the reason I am holding back is much more selfish. I want to savor this. I want to savor him.

His fingers are still twisted in my hair, slowly mimicking the actions of my hand as I stroke my fingers down the side of his face. I am delighting in simply having him here, like this. Though I probably shouldn't be smiling as widely as I am. While I may be grinning, he is glaring at me. I can practically feel his annoyance. I do not think that he is happy with the fact that I stopped what I was doing. Leaning up towards me, he has to stretch in order to kiss me. The hand in my hair tugs me down as he tries to pull me down on top of him. Rather than risking crushing my young master, I roll to the side and pull him with me. After a moment, he winds up perched on top of me with his legs on either side of my stomach. The second we stop turning, his lips are on mine again. Annoyed, indeed. This isn't like the kiss he started after hearing my apology. I can feel the heat behind this as my tongue tangles with his. I can feel his agitation not only from his mouth but the way that he is pressing up against me, his thin body rubbing up against mine as we kiss. He is taking out ever bit of frustration he feels at the past century and our current situation on my mouth. His hands drift from my hair down to my face then to my neck and onto my shirt. His thin fingers are warm even through the fabric. The feel of them is surprisingly teasing, though not nearly as much so as the way he keeps rubbing himself against me. I wonder if he even realizes that he is doing so. My arms tighten around him, pulling him closer to me still.

One of my hands slides down his back, passing the small of his back and settling on his backside when he shifts against me. At the feel of it, my young master pulls back from the kiss. Slowly, he leans back so that he is sitting up. He looks dazed. It's nice to see the effect I have on him so blatantly obvious in his expression. Has he finally decided to draw the line for today? While I have no objection to any of this, a human might think it was rather sudden. I am watching him and wondering if he is going to climb off of me or otherwise put an end to this. Instead, his eyes travel down from my face to my chest. He frowns. "... buttons."

"What was that, young master?"

"Why must you always wear something involving buttons?" He sounds almost disgusted.

I find myself smiling in spite of myself. It's a ridiculous complaint, but it's true. The button down shirts that I wear now are not dissimilar to the suit shirts that I wore while in his service a century before. Somehow, I became fond of wearing them and have continued dressing in a similar manner. Though, admittedly, usually without a tailcoat. Unable to resist, I reach up and push his own unbuttoned shirt off of one shoulder. "You are also wearing something with buttons, young master."

"That's different," he says quickly, huffing.

"How is that different?" I ask.

He fumbles for a response. Finally, finding something to respond with, he mutters, "Well, mine's already undone."

"Oh, I see," I grin. "Well, I believe I can do something to help."

Reaching up, I begin unbuttoning my shirt. In the past I've worn undershirts and the like, but today there is nothing but the thin cotton covering my skin. His eyes are riveted to my chest as my fingers slowly move further down. With him straddling my stomach, however, it's only a matter of time before I can go no further. My hands stop an inch from the crotch of his pants. Letting the fabric drop from my fingers, I run my hands up so that they are both sitting on his thighs. The amused atmosphere from a moment ago is fading quickly, replaced by something heavier. His eyes trail back up my body until he is once again staring into my own. "Sebastian..."

"Yes, young master?"

"You told me that you regretted leaving. Why?"

The question is unexpected. Reaching up with my left hand, I run my fingertips across the side of his face. He is oh so lovely in the soft morning light. Paintings by the old masters would pale in comparison next to his face now. My thumb brushes the skin underneath his right eye. I look at the contract seal as I consider how to answer. Smiling softly, I reply, "I have never enjoyed being away from you, young master."  
"Is that..." He pauses for a moment, searching for a way to phrase what he wants to ask. "Is that because of the contract?"

"No." My answer is immediate. I know that yesterday I told him the reason for my departure. I wonder if he has really forgotten so quickly, or if he merely wants to hear it again. "The contract is of little consequence to me any longer. Whether or not your soul is owed to me has no bearing on my desire to be near you." He leans his head into my hand, both of his eyes sliding closed. My voice is quiet as I realize precisely how much truth is behind my words. "My place is always at your side."

His eyes open and he looks down at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. I wonder what is running through his mind with him gazing at me the way he is. All that I know is that I am glad to have him here.

He leans forward very slowly, lowering himself onto my chest so that he is laying on top of me. Rather than bringing his lips to meet my own, he presses them instead to my neck. The feel of his lips and teeth on my skin draws a quiet gasp from me. He presses his hands into my chest as he bites softly, nibbling his way down my body. He is mimicking my own actions from earlier, letting his hands drift down my sides and across my arms as he explores everything that my unbuttoned shirt allows him access to. The feeling of his tongue dragging across my skin is ecstasy, feeding the desire I feel for him.

Small hands work to undo the rest of the buttons on my shirt as he slides further down my body. After a moment, he slides off of my stomach and sits beside me. His mouth never leaves my skin. I find myself mesmerized by the sight of his soft pink tongue sneaking out to lick at my skin. He presses his lips to my stomach before pulling back and glancing at what he has now reached. My belt. The shirt is undone, but still tucked in. In an instant, that is no longer true. He tugs the shirt out from under the edge of my trousers. I still half expect him to back off or stop at some point, and this would be the ideal opportunity for it. After all, even supposing he manages to get my belt soff, he might have trouble getting my pants undone. There are buttons, among other things.

For a moment, he does nothing and I wonder if my guess was correct. I will not push him toward one decision or another, though I find myself holding my breath as I wait to see what he will do. Then, he reaches forward and unfastens the belt. His hands only falter for a moment before working to undo the button on my slacks. He looks up at me then, staring into my eyes. I can hear every single one of the teeth of the zipper as he slowly lowers it. Reaching up, he trails one small hand across my chest and down my stomach.

As much as I enjoy having him touch me, this simply is not acceptable. As my master - no, simply for what he is to me - his needs come first. I reach down and grab his wrist. In an instant, our positions are reversed and he is pressed snugly into the comforter that covers my bed. He's startled, his voice surprised as he begins to say my name. "Seba-"

"Shh," I say. His voice is cut off as my lips come down onto his chest. No longer trying to memorize, I now simply want him to enjoy himself. I want to hear his voice as he calls out for me. My lips fasten on to one pink nipple. I wrap an arm around his body as I pull him closer to me. With my other hand free, I work to unfasten the remainder of his clothing. It is amazing what you can do with only one hand if you are determined enough to manage it. I drag my tongue across his skin as I undo his trousers and slide them down his hips and legs. Boxers follow shortly after. I love the way that his skin feels underneath of my hand. Soft, smooth and warm. I could spend all day simply touching and tasting him like this.

The hand that I have wrapped around his body quickly joins the other as I run my hands down the sides of his body even as I press kisses to his chest. Underneath my mouth, he whimpers as I nip his stomach and allow myself to drift lower. His arousal is pressing heavily against my chest, his hips pressing into me as he searches for some relief from that pressure. My tongue slides along his skin, tasting the sweat that is forming there. He reaches up with both hands, tangling his fingers in my hair.

I press a kiss to his hip and then take him into my mouth. He tastes sweet and hot on my tongue as I pull him into my throat. The sounds he makes as my tongue wraps around him are beautiful. He's crying out for me, back arching as I taste him. My hands explore his body even as my head moves between his legs. His hips push his length further into my mouth and throat. I don't mind. I relish the feel of him beneath me, the way he moves. Reaching up, I touch one of the hands that he has buried in my hair, twisting and pulling the strands. Instantly, he takes hold of my hand. I lace my finger as my mouth devours his body.

Pulling back, I let my lips glide across his hardness, solid but as soft as my silk sheets. He writhes under my careful touches as I pinch one nipple, rolling the bud between my fingertips. I can hear him panting. His toes curl against my side as he cries out one last time, the only warning I get before I feel his body tense and taste his pleasure on my tongue.

I pull my mouth away from him and rest my head on his leg, swallowing and licking the last few droplets from the corner of my mouth. My fingers are still intertwined with his. Neither of us makes any effort to change that. My free hand traces patterns softly across the skin of his stomach as I wait for him to recover. His breathing is still heavy, but I can hear it slowing. After a moment, he pulls slightly at our joined hands. He isn't trying to remove his fingers. Instead, he tugs my hand higher. Following the motion, I slide up the bed to lay next to him.

He is watching me. The expression on his face is unreadable as the two of us lay there and say nothing. I do not mind the silence. He is biting his bottom lip as though there is something that he wants to say. The slight flush across his cheeks as he looks down at my mouth and then glances away is adorable. I cannot help but smile at that. It is a little late to be embarrassed, but he is even more lovely for it.

Moments pass in silence before he speaks. When he does, his voice is quiet. "I looked for you, you know."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he says. "After you left, I tried to find you."

"Weren't you under the impression that I would devour your soul, young master?" I ask him. Even trying to find someone such as myself is a fool's errand. I am certain he knows that. Even so, I find it difficult to comprehend why someone would willingly search out the one thing that might bring about the end of their existence.

He looks away, not meeting my gaze as he studies the shape of the fan on my ceiling. "Yes."

"I am afraid that I do not understand, young master." Some of his hair has fallen down across his face. Reaching over, I brush it out of his eyes. "Why would you try to find me, knowing that I would devour your soul?"

The open expression on his face darkens slightly. A sense of unease and discomfort come over him. He doesn't pull away from my touch, but he looks as if he is considering it. Am I the source of his unease? I doubt it. More, I think that he is uneasy at the question that I have asked or his own answer to it. His voice is very soft as he responds. "I thought that, even if you were to eat my soul, it would be better than not having you there at all."

I do not like hearing words like that leave his lips. Even if it had been true that I desired to eat his soul, it bothers me that he finds that more appealing than life. The contract that he and I entered into existed to grant him some semblance of that life until the time came to conclude the contract.I had simply chosen to allow him to continue that.

It is disconcerting to think that my young master, who has always been a very strong individual, would have that sort of weakness within him. I take the hand that is still lingering in his hair and let it drift down his body. Wrapping an arm around his waist, I pull him closer to me. He allows himself to be moved, leaning against my chest. One of his thin arms drapes over my own body, allowing him a little space in between the two of us.

I enjoy having him this close to me. Even before, when I was simply his butler, I was never able to spend time like this with him. I savored the times when I carried him to his bedroom, and the few times he leaned against me for support, be it physical or emotional. I had assumed that those stolen moments were the most that I would be granted. Never had I thought that I would be able to lie here with him so close to me like this. Dipping my head, I press my lips to his hair. He smells wonderful.

My young master tilts his head forward and I feel his lips as he presses them to my chest, kissing my skin. That simple touch is a tangible heat against my body. While he has reached completion, I have not. The arousal that I felt as I brought him off still burns in me, slow and hot. I desire him as I have desired few people through out the centuries. That feeling is only deepened by the fact that I have felt this way for so very long. I want him.

My eyes slide closed as his mouth trails across my skin. The fingers of the hand he doesn't have twined with mine traces lines across my skin as he explores it. His touch is light and barely there. If I wasn't so completely aware of him, I might wonder if I was imagining it. His warm breath cools my skin where his saliva covers it as he licks the skin around one nipple. With his tongue, he traces a circle around it before his teeth bite down. I open my eyes to watch him as I lose myself in his precious touches. My arm around him pulls him even closer as he pulls his fingers out of my own. Those slender digits slide down my side, pushing my open shirt to the side. He traces the line across where my trousers are normally fastened and lets his hands drift down over the open fly. I can feel the heat of his hand on my erection, but he doesn't move his fingers inside of the fabric to touch me. Instead, he runs his hand along the outside of my pants. His fingers trace the outline of my cock, providing nothing more than teasing pressure through the fabric. "Sebastian..."

"Yes?"

"Make me forget." The words are little more than heated air on my skin, his voice so soft that even I can barely hear it. His hands have stopped moving. He slides up, his lips ghosting over the skin of my shoulders and neck. They are nearly at his ear as he speaks. "Make me forget that you were ever gone.

For now, nothing matters but him. I move to hover over top of him, pressing my lips to the juncture of his neck and jaw. Both of his hands move down to my waist once more, tugging at the fabric of my pants. He can't get a very good grip, and there isn't much leverage for him to work with. Between the two of us, however, we somehow manage to get the trousers slipped off of my legs and onto the floor. With that simple action there is nothing left between the two of us but air.  
My lips are on his skin once more, sucking at the softness I find at the base of his throat. It will leave a mark, one I will admire later. Even more so for the teeth I let dig into the flesh there, sharp but not enough to break skin. He whimpers, his voice captivating as his hands grasp at my back.

My hands run down his sides, exploring his naked skin. Traveling down his body and between his legs, I can feel him starting to get hard again. His back arches as I wrap my fingers around him. Slowly, I begin to stroke him once more. A century ago, I might have wondered if this is what he truly wanted. Especially considering everything that I know he has been through, and the many things I do not know about. However, I do not. I have no reason to doubt him now.

I am a devil. Selfish, lusting and wanting to feel his body around me. In this moment, however, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he desires exactly the same thing. I cannot fully erase the past century from reality, but perhaps I can replace it with another that will surpass the one before. It is a frightening thing to think that I would come to care so very strongly about a human. The only thing that I care about is my young master. Since the day that he and I first met, he has always been my priority. The only thing that has changed in that respect are the reasons for it.

I pull the hand that is exploring his body to my lips, wetting two of my fingers. Slowly, I bring those fingers back between his legs. My hand finds his entrance easily. Slowly, I press a finger into him. His breath catches at the intrusion. My eyes never leave his face as I begin to move the digit within him. Those hands that he has wrapped around my back tighten. His fingernails dig into my skin as I stroke him in time to the motions of my finger within him. Even around a single finger, he feels tight. Another finger joins the first, moving slowly to let him adjust to the sensation of something inside of him. I'm a fair sight larger than my fingers, and I do not wish to hurt him any more than is unavoidable.

He is still whimpering as my fingers begin to move within him. His breath comes in short pants as his teeth dig into his bottom lip. The dark hair around his head shines dimly in the faded light that still manages to find its way into the room. Only a few more moments and it will be time. Even those few moments before I remove my fingers are a trial. If I did not have as much restraint as I do, the temptation to simply go ahead and take him would be too much. He has always been tempting, but never more so than he is now as he looks up at me through half-lidded eyes. He runs his tongue across soft pink lips and I know that even I cannot wait any longer.

I pull my fingers out of him very slowly, reaching up to press against the bulge of his prostate as I draw them back. His back arches and he cries out for me once more. Settling between his legs, I spit into one hand and then spread my saliva over my own erection. He looks straight into my eyes as I begin to push into him, wrapping his arms around my neck and whispering my name under his breath. My own breath catches as I ease myself in, very aware of every movement he makes around me. He is holding his breath as he waits for me to still. Wincing, he is trying to hide the discomfort that I know he is feeling. There is nothing I can do to take that away. I am going as slowly as possible. Not only for his own sake, but because I would like to remember this. This moment, this feeling. I have had countless partners in the past. I cannot remember ever wanting any of them the way that I want him now. I would like to remember how it felt as I finally made my young master my own with more than markings and promises.

"You feel good, young master," I whisper to him as I finally hit home, completely buried in his heat.

I am certain he can hear the smile in my voice. He blushes deeply and looks away from me. "Be quiet, Sebastian."

"Is that what you really want?" I ask. I move my hips and let him feel the weight of me as I slowly pull out of him.

He gasps heavily. His arms tighten around my neck as he shouts. "Sebastian!"

I chuckle darkly against his shoulder as I lean closer to him, pushing back into him. Any feeling of amusement quickly fades as the two of us quickly find a rhythm and move together on the softness of my comforter. I have been hungry for the feeling of him beneath me for far longer than I think I would care to admit. Having him here now only feeds that and makes me want even more of him. My young master. For he truly is mine now, and I doubt that either of us will ever feel the need to deny that simple fact.

His lips on mine steal desperate kisses as his hips roll against my thrusts. My hand on his arousal teases every sensitive point that I can find. His skin is hot against mine, like fire. We're both sweating, and I delight in the taste of it on his skin. The only thing I am thinking about is the way that he feels around me. His voice sounds so sweet as he calls my name and moans when I hit just the right angle. Every movement we make feels electric. As much as I am enjoying this, however, I would like to actually be able to hold him as I push into him. That isn't really possible with his back pressed so solidly into my bed.

As smoothly as possible, I move both of us so that I am sitting on the bed with my back pressed against the headboard. He is sitting on top of me, legs on either side of my hips. His eyes widen with surprise, but he doesn't seem to mind the change of positions. "Seba-"

I cut his words off with my lips, tangling my tongue with his as I wrap my arms around him. This new angle has an added benefit, one which he and I soon discover as I thrust into him. I can reach even deeper than before. He breaks away from the kiss, groaning loudly against me. His small body is pressed so close to mine now that his arousal presses firmly into my stomach. My arms slide down his back as I let my hands settle onto his hips, showing him how to move. He does not hesitate as he follows the motions that I am showing him, pressing his chest into me as he moves over me. The feeling is amazing. Every time I push into him is like a delicious static dancing across my entire body, teasing every nerve in my skin.

His arms are wrapped around my neck. His lips press into my skin, licking and biting at my collar bone. I am getting close to going over the edge, but I will not let myself come before him. One of my arms wraps around his back, holding him closer as my other hand strokes his arousal. I flick my tongue over the sapphire earring in his ear. "Come for me."

His hips push into me even as I hear him cry out, nearly a scream as he shouts my name. He does come, hard. "Sebastian!"

His fingernails dig into my skin and the feeling is pure ecstasy, the purest feeling of pleasure and pain mixed into one. I bury myself in him even as my own pleasure overtakes me and I fill him with it. Letting out a breath, I collapse against the headboard. Sliding down onto the bed, I pull him with me.

Moments pass before I slide out of him and he rolls to the side, laying next to me. We are both still trying to catch our breath, but I can see from the smile on his face that he and I are thinking similar things. For the first time in a very long while, I am content. Perhaps even happy. Every reason for it is laying at my side and looking up at me. My sense of ease is not due to what we have just done. It is simply because he is here once more.

I am not deluding myself. I am still painfully aware of my contract with John Anderson. Even now, with my arm wrapped around my young master, I can see the edges of the clear black lines that serve to remind me that I serve two masters for now. However, I am strangely elated at the thought that my secondary contract will soon come to an end. It is bad form on my part. I pride myself on loyalty to whatever master I serve. To the better end, even if they are as distasteful as John Anderson. However, that does not mean that I will be sad to conclude that contract. Soon, I will be able to return to my young master once and for all.

I have loathed the entire century that has passed. Even before my contract with John Anderson, I did nothing productive with my time. It was not so much as an interim as a mourning period. For demons, that is shameful and disgusting. That will never happen again.

He is watching me with a most unguarded expression, a slight smile on his face as my fingers idly across his side. Neither of us is saying anything anything, and neither of us needs to. He truly is a beautiful boy. Even so, I can see things now that make me regret leaving more than I already do. My fingertips move slowly across his side, circling a small line of raised flesh. "Young master, what is this?"

He looks down to where my hand is and shrugs. "It's a scar."

"I can see that. What is it from? This was not here when I left."

"No, it wasn't," he agrees. "I've got hired bodyguards but even they can't stop everything. That one was a gun shot. I've got a few of those. Only took a few weeks to heal." He looks at the frown on my face and snorts. "Immortality begins and ends at a lack of aging with me, Sebastian. I'm not indestructible like you."

"You should have hired better bodyguards," I tell him. "They were careless if you received an injury like this."

Looking at me, he raises an eyebrow. "I was injured a few times while you were with me, too, you know. Anyway, are you saying you won't protect me?"

"Young master," I pull him a little closer. "Even with my protection before, did you not have a capable staff in your household?"

He ignores the question and buries his face in my chest, huffing. Several long moments pass before he rolls onto his back and stares up at my ceiling. "I have to leave soon."

"Oh?"

"I have a business meeting this afternoon. I can't cancel it again. Funtom Company is still something that I have to take care of." He sighs, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Rising, I retrieve a wet washcloth from my bathroom and clean the evidence of our activities from his skin. Then, I do something that I haven't done in more than a hundred years. I help him get dressed. The motions are so easy that I feel as if this is still an every day routine.

As I fasten the last button on his shirt, there is a dull electronic buzzing from my nightstand. My eyes slide over to the small black cell phone that sits on top of the stand. That sound the very last thing that I wanted to hear today. My young master makes a dismissive motion with his hand, giving me leave to answer it. I rise to my feet, bowing slightly as I say, "Excuse me."

Picking up the cell phone, I walk out of the room and into the hallway that leads to my living room. I flip the phone open and press it to my ear. "Hello?"

"You, de... de... demon," the slurring voice at the other end manages. It's still morning, though nearly noon, and he is already drunk again. Or perhaps he is still drunk from last night, I am uncertain. I really could not care less. His distasteful voice rolls through the phone more loudly than I would have cared for. "I'm having some company over tonight, a couple of... lovely ladies," he pauses, as if not sure those were the right words. They probably weren't. "You're gonna come over here and entertain us. At six."

"Entertain you?"

"You know what I mean, you... you animal," Anderson says. There is a loud crash and a dull thud in the background. I wonder if he has fallen over. He growls stupidly at the phone. Animal, indeed. "Don't be late. And you better be fuckin' presentable, or... or else."

The line on the other end goes dead as he shuts the phone. My eyes drift towards the door at the end of the hall that leads to my bedroom where my young master is still probably sitting on my bed. Yes, I think that tonight will be the last time that I will see John Anderson.  
Walking down the hall, I go back into the bedroom. My young master does not ask about the phone call or even bat an eye when I set the cell phone back down onto my nightstand. He isn't stupid. I'm quite certain that he is aware that there aren't many reasons that a demon such as myself would keep something like that around. Rather than broach the subject, I say, "I apologize for the interruption, young master."

"It doesn't matter." He slides off the bed and stands up, his eyes not meeting mine. Instead, he looks back at the bed where he and I made love. I wonder what he is thinking behind those mysterious eyes.

Quietly, I ask, "Young master, can I ask one favor?"

"What is it?"

"Will you come to see me later tonight, once your meetings conclude?"

Finally, he looks up at me. I can see him thinking about my question. He is not uncertain or regretful about what we have done, but perhaps trying to instill some of that caution in himself that he had only the day before. Apparently, caution does not win out in the argument. He breathes, "Yes."

Quietly, I escort him to the door of my apartment. Before he leaves, I am unable to resist leaning down and stealing a kiss.

It is five fifty-two in the evening and I am standing in front of the brick facade of John Anderson's apartment building. Nothing on the outside betrays the filth of the people within it. It only takes a moment for me to make my way up to his apartment. After a polite knock on the door, I let myself inside.

John Anderson is not difficult to find, though he isn't in a location that I would have normally checked. His voice and the laughter of two women can be heard clearly coming from the kitchen. The counters are made of white marble, but it is hard to tell that beneath the discarded wrappers from various food items. Anderson has also unearthed and opened several bottles of wine, most of which are empty now. He and his company are all holding wine glasses. The wrong sort of wine glasses for the chosen vintage, but I doubt he cares. They all turn their attention towards me as I walk into the kitchen. I cannot say that I am surprised by his choice in company, though I am not greatly enthused by it. In addition to his preferred prostitute, John Anderson has decided to include the anorexic woman from last night in this private party. She smiles far too warmly at me for my tastes as I walk into the kitchen. Anderson does not react favorably to my arrival. The happy smile on his face fades the instant I see him. "You're late. And you're not fucking dressed right again. Have some class."

At least he sounds slightly more sober, though with that much alcohol in his system, I do not know how that is possible. I am perfectly well aware that I am not late. The only thing that he could complain about is the fact that my clothing is black and white. Tonight, I simply couldn't be bothered wearing something else. I meet his gaze, but do not apologize. Surprisingly, the prostitute at his side speaks up, her voice thick with a New Jersey accent. "Oh, leave him be, John. Who cares what he's wearing? It'll be off of him soon enough."

"That's right," the anorexic woman speaks up, her eyes still on me. "You up for a repeat of last night, stud? It'll be loads of fun, and more's a party..."

Smiling politely, I respond. "I'm afraid that is absolutely out of the question.""

Excuse me?" She sounds as though she might be offended. I think I should remove any uncertainty.

"I have no desire to feel your touch again or to be any closer to your filthy body than absolutely necessary," I say. The smile never leaves my face.

She begins sputtering, backing up as she finally finds her voice. "Fuck you!"

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Anderson shoves the woman aside and walks up to me, spitting in my face as he breathes. He barely comes up to my shoulders. It is very difficult for anyone that height to look imposing, and he certainly doesn't manage to achieve that.

"Mr. Anderson," I say, ignoring the bluster.

"What?" He says, having no other response.

"You have been quite wealthy for some time, you know," I tell him, smiling brightly as I relish the thought of what is soon to come. My eyes are glowing. I wonder if the women are afraid yet. Anderson certainly has not realized what is about to happen. "As such, I do believe that I have fulfilled the requirements of service that our contract has dictated. I'm afraid it is now time to bring a conclusion to our dealings."

John Anderson's eyes are wide as the realization of what I am about to do sinks in. Rather than killing him outright and taking his soul, however, I do something that I have wanted to do since the party last night. My left hand shoots out from my body, claws ripping through the cotton gloves as my hand fastens around the throat of the blonde woman that I slept with last night. I flex my ingers and my hand crushes her throat even as my claws cut through her flesh. She is dead in a very short amount of time, but the spray of arterial blood and the squelching scream that she makes as the last of the air leaves her lungs is enough to strike terror into the other two people in the room. People like that woman disgust me, and I do not appreciate being humiliated. I can feel a deep sense of satisfaction as I let her corpse drop from my hand, hitting the floor with a thud.

The prostitute screams, turning to run. I dislike her for many of the same reasons that I hated the woman that I have just killed. After all, this prostitute was one of the people that John Anderson forced upon me when I was first under his subjugation. Even if I did not have that dislike of her, I could not let her survive. In the modern world, police can cause more problems than they should be able to. My hand shoots through her chest, crushing her ribcage and ending her life before her heart can even complete another beat. Her blood drips down my arm, splattering the man on the ground in front of me. I have not even taken one step away from where I have been standing.

On the floor in front of me, John Anderson is on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him as if he is praying. He is, in a way, but begging me will do him little good. He is simpering, weak and foolish. He smells of urine. I do believe that he has wet his pants. "You don't have to do this! Please! Please!"

"I have been in your service for more than a year, Mr. Anderson, and I have to admit that I am in awe." I peel the remains of the gloves off of my hands. Even I have no desire to feel blood soaked cloth against my skin. I drop the remains on the floor. I will dispose of them later, once I have removed the corpses. "I have never met someone for whom I feel such complete revulsion before. Coming from one such as myself, that is a very remarkable statement."

"Please! Don't kill me! I'll do anything!" He is ignoring my words completely. Instead, his hands are grabbing the legs of my pants, trying to garner my attention as he begs like a dog. "I can give you anything you want! Money! Women! Drugs! Just name it and it's yours."

"Money?" I raise an eyebrow. "Mr. Anderson, wasn't I the one who helped you get that money in the first place?"

"Even so, I'll-"

"I already have everything that I need," I tell him. "After all, I am merely one hell of a butler."

"Butler?"

The confused word is the last to leave his lips. Picking him up easily, I tear him in half. His body falls apart as easily as wet bread, fluids and flesh gushing out on the tile floors he loved so much.

In an instant, I have already knelt before him and devoured his soul. I take no delight in it and barely even notice the flavor. It is sustenance, nothing more. Rather than needing a meal, my motivation in devouring him is to finally bring to a close the contract that I entered into with him. With both gloves gone from my hands, I look at the back of my left hand and watch as the black lines on it leech back to the familiar pattern that indicates who my master is. Ciel Phantomhive is now the only one whose contract marks my skin.

Later tonight, after I have finished cleaning up this apartment, I will reestablish the connection with him that I tamped down on so long ago. That little part of my mind that will let me hear if Ciel Phantomhive calls for me. I no longer fear feeling that familiar pull on my mind. I get started on cleaning up the apartment. I am not doing it out of respect for the dead or any regret for my actions. I am doing this so that no one will discover what has happened here, because it will be less problematic for myself if it appears that John Anderson has simply left for an impromptu vacation. Eventually, perhaps a month from now, someone will discover that he isn't returning. When that happens, they will investigate his spare apartment, where I am staying. I will be long gone by that time, but I would not care for someone to discover the apartment before I leave.

Three and a half hours after I arrived at John Anderson's home, I am walking down the sidewalk towards my own apartment. All traces of blood are gone from my body. I am wearing a fresh change of clothes, one I kept in that apartment for situations which might require clean clothing.

I am surprised to discover that I feel relieved now that the contract between John Anderson and myself has concluded. There has never been a point when I particularly cared about the fact that I was in a contract with someone or not. Demons do not usually have a preference, even if their master is revolting or cruel. Truthfully, some even enjoy that. It is simply how we live. Much as humans have jobs to survive, this is how I live. When one contract concludes, demons will eventually find themselves in another. It is simply the natural way of things.

Even so, I find myself smiling as I walk down the sidewalk in the darkness of evening. I am pleased at the prospect of being able to see my young master again. Even with John Anderson out of the way, I am well aware that there are other complications that will arise. I have no intention of ever devouring my young master's soul. That has not changed. And, truthfully, I do not need to eat to survive. However, demons do feel hunger. While many years may pass, eventually I will find myself feeling a very great deal of discomfort at that hunger. As my experience with John Anderson has shown, however,, I believe that I would feel just as uncomfortable with the thought of entering into another contract simply to assuage my hunger. The thought of devouring souls outside of a contract, the very thing that the grim reapers fear from demons like myself, is not even something I will consider. It is akin to picking food out of a dumpster for your dinner. Yes, in time, I will find myself facing two different kinds of discomfort. Either hunger or a secondary contract. When that happens, I will simply choose whichever option is the least offensive at the time.

And, after all, there are different kinds of hunger. Memories from this morning are enough to remind me of that. The smile from my lips fades as I look up ahead of myself, however. In front of my building, emergency vehicles are blocking most of the two lane road. There are no sirens going, so I know that they have been there for a while. However, the lights are still flashing on top of two ambulances even as one of them pulls away. A police car is parked directly in front of the building. A policeman is trying to keep a crowd of onlookers that surround the area back. It's obvious that there's been an accident. Another policeman is standing off to the side, talking to a distraught looking woman who is leaning against a vehicle.

The crowd is blocking the door to my building, but I try to work my way through them. I can tell that people are being allowed inside the building through the front door even though it is slow going. I do not feel like using the back entrance or fire escape to reach my apartment. As I nudge my way inside, one of the women from my floor sees me. "Did you hear what happened?"

"An accident, I'd assume," I say, looking at her levelly. I've had the misfortune of being caught by her before. The woman could take three hours to retell a five minute story, and she is always hungry for gossip. I wonder if I can work my way around her in less than half an hour.

She nods. "I saw it, too. Nothing ever happens on our street, does it? Not like this. That car swerved across both lanes and hit a kid crossing the street. Took out another car, too, and part of the building. They said the brakes cut out on them. The entire thing's a mess. Such a shame, too. I saw the kid before they took him out of here, too. Couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve. I wonder if they've gotten a hold of his parents. I hope he's okay, he looked like he was in bad shape."

"Kid?" There is a sinking feeling in my stomach. My young master and I had not agreed on a particular time, merely that he would meet me at my apartment at some point later in the evening. I have no reason to assume that something has happened, even if he does have a history of getting himself into difficult situations. "Did you see what he looked like?"

"Not really, no," she admits. "All I could see of him was a glimpse of his face before the paramedics put him in the ambulance."

"Was he wearing an eye patch?" One of his most defining characteristics, and something that most humans notice on a child. I'm certain it isn't him, but knowing for certain and not wondering as I wait for him to arrive will set my mind at ease.

"Oh. No, definitely not." She smiles. I let out a sigh of relief. She turns to look at the last ambulance as it pulls away. "He did have the prettiest hair, though. Sort of a slate-blue color, almost gray."

My entire body feels as cold as ice as I hear those words. Pushing past her, I make my way swiftly through the crowd of people. The line where the policeman is pushing people back is clearly defined by some hastily strung tape. Against the building, a sedan with the front half of its hood crumpled is steaming lightly. There is blood on the pavement behind it, ending at the curb where the car went up and over it before hitting the building. The air smells of burnt rubber and oil. I open my mouth to call the police officer over to get more information, to confirm or deny my fears, when I see it.

Laying on the ground, nearly hidden underneath the back tire of the sedan, there is a small black triangle of cloth. Twin black cords string out from either side, frayed and shredded on the pavement. My young master's eye patch.


	5. Chapter 5

The scent of alcohol and sickness reaches my nose even before I walk through the sliding glass doors of the emergency room. The paramedics and police were more than willing to direct me to the hospital that my young master had been taken to, though they would tell me no more.

The evening is still young, and it is not a weekend. While a few people are sitting in the pleather chairs that make up the hospital lounge, it is mostly deserted. I pay them no mind as I pace toward the reception desk. As I approach, the nurse sitting behind the podium looks up at me. I wonder if the expression on my face is really so dire, as she is reaching for an admissions slip rather than simply asking what she can do to help me. I raise a hand to stop her. "I am sorry, but I do not need to be seen. I am looking for someone. He would have been brought in a short while ago by ambulance."

She looks up at me skeptically, but her hand moves away from the admission slips. After a moment, she turns back to the computer screen in front of her. "What is the name?"

"Frederick Randall," I say without hesitation. The name that my young master is using to run his company is also the name that he is using for his own identity, though he will always be Ciel Phantomhive to me. He had no identification on him. I am quite certain of that. However, if he was conscious then that is the name that he would have given them. I wonder if he has ever cared for any of these aliases that he uses.

I expect her to type the name into the computer to check, but instead she looks up at my sharply as if I have done something wrong. The name is familiar to her, and I doubt it is because of his age or the circumstances in which he was brought in. Quietly, she asks, "Are you family?"

"I am his guardian," I tell her, not batting an eye. It isn't a lie. I am his guardian, though not in the sense that she will assume. I have done a very, very poor job of it thus far. For now, that does not matter. I know enough to gather that he was alive when they took him away from the scene of the accident, but I have no way to know how severe his injuries were. It is also possible that something may have happened during the journey from my apartment complex to the hospital. This hospital is one of the finest in the city, and I do not take the fact that they brought him here to be a good sign. After all, the hospital that was only a few blocks from my apartment would have been more than sufficient to treat minor injuries. However, minor injuries would not have left that much blood on the cement behind the vehicle.

From behind the computer monitor, I can see that the woman is thinking over her options. I can only imagine what his file must look like on their computers. Perhaps my young master has managed false information to make his information look more normal. I wonder what birth date he has listed. After a long moment, the woman lets out a heavy sigh. I wonder if there is more to this situation than I realize. I have not frequented hospitals in recent years, but I cannot imagine that her behavior is normal. She asks, "Can I ask for your name?"

"Sebastian Michaelis."

She says nothing. After a moment, she stands and excuses herself. When she returns, there is another nurse with her. This new woman beckons me over and leads me to a quiet corner that is away from the other patients waiting in the lounge. She looks at me apologetically. "I am sorry for the wait, Mr. Michaelis. Mr. Randall has been to our hospital before, but he has never been accompanied by his... by yourself."

"May I ask what happened?" I say.

"Of course," she says. "He was brought into the hospital via ambulance about twenty minutes ago. He is currently in surgery. The police called to let us know that someone would be coming to see him, so I am certain that you already know that he was involved in a vehicular accident."

"How badly was he injured?" I ask. This is what I am concerned about.

She frowns for a moment before shaking her head slightly. "Unfortunately, I am unable to tell you that just now." When she sees the dark expression on my face, she holds up a hand defensively. "Not because I wish to withhold information from you, Mr. Michaelis. He was taken into emergency surgery and I am uncertain of what they will find. I can tell you that he was taken into surgery for internal bleeding. If it were not Mr.  
Randall, I would not even be able to tell you that much."

"I see." There is a long pause, and I am uncertain of what else to ask. There is nothing that I can do.

"I know that you must be worried about him, but for right now the best thing that you can do is wait and pray for him." She smiles at me. I cannot even smirk at the dry irony that her statement contains even without her knowledge. "There is a waiting room just down this hall. Have a seat and be patient. I will come and tell you as soon as I have news."

Sitting and waiting is something that I should excel at after my year of service to John Anderson. The falsely soft covers of the hospital chairs are uncomfortable, but they are enough. I am very aware of the sound that the second hand makes as it ticks away in the clock hanging on the wall. It has been more than two hours  
since I first set foot inside of the hospital, and I still do not know how my young master is fairing.

This is an emotion that I am already familiar with. I have felt it before. It is a sense of unease at not knowing how badly he may be injured, not knowing if his life is in danger. However, in the past, the feeling has been fleeting. I have only felt it for a single moment as I have watched an assailant launch themselves at him before I intervened. Now, there is nothing that I can do to step between him and the danger that he is facing. I am unaccustomed to feeling this way for this long, and the feeling does not bode well with me. I find myself glancing up every time that I hear the sounds of shoes on the tile floors of the hallway just outside of the waiting area.

For once, I think I can understand the way that a human might feel. I hate being forced to wait and wonder as much as any mortal man might have to. This is what he has done to me. Before I left his side, there was no problem too great for me to solve. I was the solution, the answer, to all of his needs and desires. The situation that he is in now is different. There is no solution. There is nothing I can do to save him this time.

Nearly an hour ago, I pulled the glove off of my left hand. I have spent much of my time studying the lines of our contract that grace the skin there. He is still alive. At least, I believe that the presence of our seal on my skin is proof enough of that. Even in the short time since I discovered that he was injured, I have been forced to think about many things. My duty to him. Our contract. I have even considered the connection between us, the one that I have not yet reestablished and which I tamped down on so completely when I left the first time.

After John Anderson was disposed of, I had been looking forward to reestablishing that connection. I wanted it. I still want it. When a contract is formed between a demon and a human, the demon will mark that human with the seal of their contract. The closer to the eye that the seal is placed, the stronger the bond between them. No matter what might happen, that demon will never lose track of their master. They may follow them to the very depths of Hell itself and yet that connection will not be lost.

Darkness and hopelessness surround these deep ties, binding my master and myself so that I might find him and devour his soul even if he should run from me. Humans who delude themselves into believing that demons are benevolent creatures would do well to remember the true nature of the bond that ties them together. And yet, my desire to reestablish that connection and once again feel his presence is not malicious. I simply wish to be able to feel his presence there at the other end, wherever he might be.

The clock is the only sound that accompanies me as I slide my eyes closed and feel for him, for those tenuous threads of our contract. Even though I have cut them and tied them and in every way forced them out of my mind, they still remain. Fragile and Broken, they have always haunted the edges of my mind as I consider the promises that we made when I found him dying on that altar to a beast so many years ago. His broken body, his blood on the tiles. All of these things pull his mind to me, even as I am certain that he is once again lying broken and bloodied on a table only a few rooms away.

There is no magical moment or bright light as I manage to force the connection between us open once more. There is only a warm, vague feeling at the back of my mind. Even when the connection was first established, I was not aware of his presence unless I was consciously searching for him. In the beginning, I had not really bothered with that unless he had been abducted. As time had passed, though, I found myself keeping the connection open between us constantly until that final night. I was always aware of him. Now, I find myself hoping that this will not bet yet another final night, especially when I cannot be by his side.

While I can feel him, I have no idea how severe his injuries are. I know that they are not minor. After all, why would a surgery take this long to simply repair a fractured bone or to close a wound? Beyond that, however, I truly have no way of knowing. It is frustrating, but there is nothing to be done for it. There is nothing that I can do but wait.

My eyes drift back up to the clock, watching the second hand as it circles the face. My wait is coming to an end. Slowly, I look up at the doorway as a man walks in. "Mr. Michaelis."

I get to my feet. This is not the nurse from before, but he obviously knows who I am. Truthfully, I am rather surprised that they have not tried to verify my identity. Perhaps it is simply standard procedure, and I doubt that anyone else has shown up to claim my young master.

The man carries himself with a more professional air even though ihe is still dressed in scrubs. A doctor. I gather that he has come with news. I do not know whether it is a good thing or a bad thing that the doctor has come to talk to me. The only thing that I know is that my master is still alive. I reach out to shake his hand. "Is he out of surgery?"

"Yes, he is. I know that the nurse you spoke with earlier wasn't able to give you many details. Frederick came in with multiple leg fractures, a cracked rib, internal bleeding and a large abrasion on his abdomen and left hip," the doctor tells me. "Our main concern was the bleeding. He had lost quite a bit of blood by the time that they got him here. However, we were able to stop the bleeding and set the leg. We've bandaged the abrasion and we will keep an eye on it. There isn't much we can do for the broken rib. With rest, his own body will take care of that. We have him on pain killers, to ease the discomfort. However, Mr. Michaelis, I believe that he will be able to return home fairly soon. He was very fortunate."

"That's good to hear." My response does not match the amount of relief that I feel. Regardless, a smile spreads across the doctor's face. I wonder if my emotions are more visible in my expression than I would care for them to be.

"Ordinarily, we would keep him in the pediatric intensive care unit for a couple of days to keep an eye on him, but..." He pauses, as if considering his words. "Well, I'm certain that you are well aware of how very valuable both Frederick and yourself are to our hospital. That being the case, I've arranged for him to be transferred to a private room. He'll be moved up there in about an hour, and you can see him then. Once he is settled, I'll be in to talk to you about where we will need to go from here."

"Thank you," I say, barely registering as he tells me which room my young master will be taken to. He shakes my hand and leaves.

Even if I hadn't been told which room my young master was being transferred to, I doubt that it would have been hard to figure it out. In one of the largest wings of the hospital that contained patients, the hallway he was placed into is sparsely populated. The door to the room itself is unremarkable, a plain and neutral brown with the number 826 clearly visible on it. The two men standing outside of the door are what made it remarkable. Both men are tall and obviously athletic, dressed in plain black suits and standing outside of the room without glancing about. These must be the hired bodyguards that my young master had mentioned before.

As I walk toward the door, one of the bodyguards glances at something in his hand before looking back up at me. He stares intently for a moment before nodding to the man at his side. As I approach, he says, "Go on in, Mr. Michaelis. We were expecting you."

The item that the guard was glancing at is visible as I move past them, sliding the door open in front of me. It is a photograph of my young master, myself and all of the servants that I had served with previously. It was the same photo that I had seen online not so long ago. It has been less than a week since I found him in that small bakery so unexpectedly. Already, he seems to have made a point of reintegrating me into his life. So quickly, I wonder if I have not been the only one who has regretted the past century of being apart. The door shuts behind me once I finally step into the room and see him. His tiny form is framed in a large hospital bed. On either side of it, there are a number of monitors and machines that are beeping and clicking. A bag of IV fluids hangs from a pole, with a smaller bag hanging beside it and feeding into the line. Even though it is a private room, it still looks like part of an intensive care unit.

Just seeing him is a relief to me. Quietly, I walk over to the side of the bed and take a moment to simply study his face. My young master. His skin is waxy and pale. His hair is a tangled mess. He smells wrong, covered with chemicals and medicine. And yet, I have never felt happier to see him than I do now. Bending over the bed, I press my lips to his forehead. Relief courses through me at this reassurance that he is alive.

How close have I come to losing him for good tonight? I do not really want to know. Death, on the whole, does not bother me. The death of humans is inconsequential and inevitable. When it comes from my own hands, I enjoy giving it. When I left my master's side and made the decision that I still regret, I had even wished that he might live a normal life and eventually die as all humans should. I will not say that I wonder why the thought of him dying now bothers me. I know why it bothers me, and I am fine with my own emotions for him. However, I am not satisfied with the thought that my presence at his side this evening could have prevented this. That thought makes me surprisingly uneasy.

There is a light knock at the door of the room. I straighten up, putting a more proper distance between myself and my master as the door slides open. The doctor from before steps inside, offering me a professional smile as he walks toward me once more. "I see that you've managed to find your way up here without any trouble."

"Yes, thank you," I respond.

"Well, that's good." He looks down at my master and I can see his eyes also glancing over to the monitors that surround the hospital bed. Keeping track of everything on the monitors is a nurse's job, but seeing a doctor that pays attention sets my mind at ease slightly. I doubt I will be totally happy until my master opens his eyes, though. The doctor adjusts one of the machines and turns back to me again. "In addition to what I've already told you, he will have extensive bruising. While we'll have to see how he's doing after he gets out of here, he'll also probably need physical therapy for his leg. He was lucky, Mr. Michaelis. "

"When do you think he will wake up?" I ask.

"In a few hours," the doctor responds. "When he does, he will be groggy. His throat will be sore. I have prescribed some pain medication, but there's a standing order not to administer it unless he ask for it. Either you or he can use the call button to summon a nurse, if that is the case.

"I should also let you know that nurses will be coming in to check on him every once and a while. Ordinarily, visitors are restricted, but... well, you and Frederick are always welcome in our hospital. Though, next time, perhaps you will visit under happier circumstances."

Yet again, I have the feeling that there is more to the hospitality here than meets the eye. It doesn't matter. I am simply glad that he is being taken care of. This is a hospital, not a manor house. My own expertise has never extended to knowing how to heal humans. I am much better at killing them. In this instance, I am grateful for the doctor that has taken care of him and very likely saved his life. "Thank you."

He nods and, after a moment, turns and leaves through the door of the room. I sink down into one of the chairs beside the hospital bed and look at my young master. Time passes, hour after hour. Once an hour, nurses come in and check the monitors that he is connected to. They write notes and adjust dials as necessary. They pay me little mind, greeting me as they come in and wishing me a good day as they leave.

I dislike having this much time to consider the situation with my young master. It is disconcerting to realize that only three days have passed since the morning when I found him again. It seems much longer to me. In such a short amount of time, everything has changed. Somehow, the beautiful, sleeping boy that is laying no more than five feet from me has managed to completely turn my entire life upside down. He does not know, and I doubt that he will ever fully realize the effect that he has had on my life. He is oblivious, and oblivious he will remain. Demons do not become attached to their masters. They do not become overly involved. They do not fall in love with their prey. A demon becomes everything for the master he serves. And yet, somehow, he has become everything to me.

Once again, Ciel Phantomhive is my young master. Once again, I am his loyal servant. Now, I must wait for my master to awaken and see how this situation will unfold. Even though the doctor said that he was very fortunate, and that he would be well enough to leave sooner than might otherwise have been the case, I still feel slightly disconcerted by his state of unnatural unconsciousness. I do not think that feeling will pass until he opens his eyes.

The hours tick by and the nurses come and go. Just after six, I look up and realize that my young master's eyes are open. He is staring into nothingness. I am not certain whether or not he is actually awake. Quietly, I say, "Young master?"

"What happened?" he asks. The words are rough and slurred, his voice thick with both sleep and phlegm. I stand and walk to the bedside. Reaching out, I touch his hair lightly. His eyes drift over to me.

"I am uncertain of the particular details," I tell him, "but I do believe that you were struck by a car."

"Are you sure it wasn't a train?" he asks. Sarcasm. The slightest edges of a smile touch my lips even as I turn to go and pour him a glass of water.

"Quite. Would you like to sit up a little?" He nods. Pressing the button on the side of the electric bed, I listen to the quiet humming as it slowly moves him into a position that at least vaguely resembles sitting. Leaning forward, I help him to take a couple sips of the water. Softly, I ask, "How are you feeling?"

"Like I was just hit by a car," he says, looking up at me and shaking his head slightly when I hold up the glass of water for him again. I set it on the rolling table at the side of the hospital bed. Very quietly, he says, "You're here."

"Yes," I say. I had assumed that my presence would not be a problem. Is it possible that I have assumed incorrectly? I know that he was hesitant about me before. Even this morning, I could still sense his uncertainty just before he left my apartment. "Would you prefer that I leave?"

"No." Even with his drowsiness, the response is immediate. "I just thought that you..."

"That I what, young master?" I look towards him as I patiently wait for his response. He takes a moment as he considers what words to use.

After a moment, he looks back toward me and huffs. "I thought that you would l-"

Whatever it is that he is about to say, his words are cut off by a knock on the door. It slides open and once again admits a doctor. It isn't the same man as the night before. Instead, it's a woman. She walks across the room and shakes my hand before greeting Ciel. She really must assume that I am his legal guardian, rather than someone of no relation. In a warm and friendly voice, she covers all of the information that I was told last night and relays that information to my young master in a way which most adults would use with a small child. Strange. Even though he has always been young in appearance, I have never really thought of him as a child. Oh, I have teased him to that end before, but he has never really been anything less than what he is.

While her words are calm and reassuring, I find myself paying little attention to them. For the most part, I am paying more attention to my young master's reactions. He listens as she tells him what happened and the treatments that they have already started implementing. His face sours when she tells him that there will be physical therapy required. Nearly as fast as she has come, she leaves.

When she is gone, silence settles in. My young master is more alert and aware tan he was even a few minutes ago. even so, he isn't looking at me. I am still wondering what he was about to say before we were interrupted. "You were saying, young master?"

"I'm tired," he says, gracefully avoiding my question. He nods toward the cup of water and I help him to drink a little more before he sinks back onto the thin, crinkling pillows that the hospital has provided.

"Get some rest, young master," I say, bowing gracefully. I set the cup back onto the rolling table and turn to go back to the chair that I was sitting in earlier.

His voice is quiet as he calls my name. "Sebastian."

"Yes?" I turn to look at him.

"I'm glad," he says, pausing, "... that you're here."

My chest constricts painfully as I look at him. His eyes are clearer, but still troubled as he looks up at me. I am well aware that I can do little to ease the discomfort that he is in as a result of the accident. The most that I can do is follow any orders that he might give me. After all, I am once again simply one hell of a butler.

Unable to resist, I turn and walk the few steps back to the side of the bed. Reaching down, I run my fingertips along the side of his face. There is nothing that I can do about the fact that I was not there to stop him from being injured by that car. I do not hold any grudge against the driver whose vehicle malfunctioned. It was an accident, pure and simple. However, I am endlessly glad to have him safe at my side now. Very slowly, I lean down and capture his lips in a kiss. Despite his sleepiness, my young master joins in the caress. His face is cradled in my hand as I pull away from him, brushing my thumb over his cheek. "I have something to show you, young master. Unless you are too tired."

"What is it?" he asks, looking up at me tiredly.

I pull my left hand up to my lips and quickly pull the soft cotton fabric of my glove away from my hand. I hold my hand up so that he can see the clear black lines that are etched into my skin. "I thought that you might like to know."

His eyes trace down my fingers and across my skin slowly as he takes in what I am showing him. I can see his lips turn up in the barest hint of a smile as he realizes what is different from the last time I showed him my hand. "You ended it."

"Yes." I am smiling.

"Sebastian..."

"Yes?"

"Don't do that again. I don't like the thought..." he tells me, yawning. He leans back into the pillows sleepily. "... of you in another contract."

I take my hand away from the side of his face and press it over my heart, bowing slightly as I whisper, "Yes, my lord."

I doubt that he knows that I also do not like the thought of being in a contract with someone else. Even when I had broken the oath that I had made to him and left his side, I was never truly at ease with that particular concept. Even so, it is unheard of for a demon to promise themselves to one master and one master alone. Is it a wise thing to do? No. Not in the slightest. It is easily the most foolish thing that I have done in centuries, if not in my entire life. And yet, even as the words leave my mouth, I know that I mean them. My young master has told me not to enter into another contract. I will follow those words until the end of eternity, even though it may mean that I will never again eat another meal. Still, I will not regret this decision, no matter what the future might bring. At my side, my young master is sleeping.

Another day has come and gone. Now, my young master is sitting up in bed and very much awake. I have spent most of the morning sitting and pretending to read a newspaper as I watch him bicker with overattentive nurses and the doctors who continue to come in and out. They've mostly finished with everything that they needed to do, and the traffic has stilled.

The doctors seem to be impressed by the fact that my young master is awake and feeling as... energetic as he is. This is bolstered by the fact that my master has insisted that he is not in much pain and does not need additional medication. I suspect that he is lying, but I am also well aware of the fact that he is a very strong person. In all truth, I am rather proud of him for being able to muster this much attitude while wearing nothing more than a hospital gown and being poked and prodded by a parade of strangers. I would tell him so, but I value my life.

In the absence of the medical personnel, my young master has spent the better part of the last hour making phone calls. Even when he is injured, it would seem that he still feels the need to focus on the business that he has run so well for more than a century. He is still on the phone as I walk back through the door of the room carrying tea bags and an unfortunately plastic teapot. There are no bodyguards outside of the door any longer. They were dismissed nearly as soon as my young master had woken up once more.

The teapot is placed on the rolling table and I do my best to prepare a cup of the tea that was provided by the hospital, despite the less than ideal conditions. When the concoction is presented to him, he makes a face. "What is this?"

"Pre-packaged and provided by the hospital, I tell him, attempting to sound apologetic. "I am afraid that your doctor was most adamant that I should not bring in any outside food or drink items to prepare for something more suitable.

"Yes, but then I would have been deprived of the thrilled expression on your face," I tell him, smirking. He glares at me and I can feel the smile of my lips widening. Rather than allow him to tell me off for the substandard food, however, I decide to change the subject and ask something that I have been curious about. "Young master, I have been meaning to ask you, but why do you receive such special treatment at this hospital?"

"Oh, that," he says, as if it is barely something that he has thought about. "I figured you would have noticed. Have a look at the placard on the wall."

In this hospital, they have gone overboard with making certain that every room is labeled multiple times. There are small plaques displaying the name of the wing and the room number on both the interior and exterior of each room. In the case of patients who will be staying more than a few days, there is even space for their name to be added or for another label to be affixed to each sign. I haven't bothered to look at the plaque that adorns this particular room, as I already know which door it is and who is inside. Looking at it now, all mystery of the excellent service is easy to understand. It reads simply 'Room 826, Dalles Wing.'

"I am assuming that the name Dalles is referring to Angelina Dalles," I say.

"Quite." He takes a tentative sip of the tea, apparently deciding that having the bagged abomination is still better than no tea at all. "About ten years ago, I was shot and I wound up in this hospital. The hospital was running out of funding, but the doctors were competent. They were also extending their budget beyond their means by funding additional research projects. Rather than let the hospital run itself into the ground, I felt that it might be fitting for Funtom Company to make an appropriate donation. We also sponsor several women's health and childhood cancer fundraisers every year for the hospital."

"That was very considerate of you, young master," I say, taking a seat once again.

"Considerate?" He raises an eyebrow. "It's publicity. Ours ales went through the roof for six months  
after the donation was announced. On top of that, if I am injured then I get excellent care at this hospital."

I look around the room and observe the large amount of equipment that is still present. He is also still attached to several monitors. Dryly, I tell him, "Perhaps there are other changes that need to be made if you wind up in the hospital frequently enough to merit your own room."

He ignores the comment and sets the cup of tea to the side, looking away from me. "Do you have any personal belongings that will need to be moved?"

"Young master?" I ask curiously, confused by the sudden change in subject.

"I am assuming that, as you have agreed to return to my service, you would have no objections with residing in my house," he says, looking up at me. "I do travel a fair amount, but I keep residences in all of the cities that I spend any significant amount of time in. London, Paris, New York and Tokyo all contain major company offices, at the moment. I maintain sizable housing in all of them except Tokyo."

"I do not have much in the way of personal belongings," I tell him. "Much as when we first entered into our contract, my things are few."

"Few?" Confusion and skepticism color his voice. "Last time, you had nothing."

"In truth, young master, all that I have currently are things that I have kept from my time in your service." I am not lying. On the last evening that I spent in his mansion so many years ago, it isn't as though I left behind the very clothing that I was wearing before I vanished into the night. I had grown surprisingly fond of the uniform that I wore. Sentimental, yes, but I still have it. It has been well cared for in the interim, even though I have not worn it since the night that I left. Sentimental and foolish, but something that I am glad to have kept. I also have one other memento. A photograph of my young master, one of very few that were taken. Yet again, incredibly sentimental and foolish. I have never before kept belongings that I had in a previous contract. While I understand the attachments that humans place on such objects and the things around them, I myself have never really felt much inclination to keep something simply to remind me of the past. I exist in the present. Humans use such attachments to delude themselves into feeling as though the past is present. I have never had any such delusions, and yet I have still kept these things.

From the hospital bed, my young master is still looking at me skeptically. "What did you keep?"

"The uniform that I wore in my time as your butler," I tell him, "and a photograph of yourself."

A very pretty blush settles into his cheeks when I mention the photograph. Unable to resist, I mention this. "Young master, you are blushing. Why?"

"Shut up." The blush on his cheeks deepens even as he says the words. He looks away from me, huffing.

It is delightful to be able to tease him like this. However, there is something else that I am wondering. "Young master, there is something else. Why is it that you have asked me to return to your service, knowing that I left before? Even if you do believe that I have no intention of eating your soul, my past actions-"

"Are the past," he says, cutting me off. Slowly, he turns his head back to face me. Even through the dusky shield of his bangs, I can still see the outline of the contract seal in his right eye. "I asked you to return because you don't lie. I trust you. If you say that you will stay, then you will stay.

I do not have the words to formulate a response to a statement like that, though it isn't really the response that I was looking for. I would be lying if I said that I was not surprised to hear him say that he trusts me. He has noticed me watching him. Meeting my gaze, he continues. "I also prefer having you at my side. I... don't like it when you're gone. even if you do leave eventually, you are still here for now. You make things easier."

"Easier?" I ask him. Quietly, I move from my position by the door back to the hospital bed. Bending down slightly, I straighten out the hospital gown and run my fingers through his hair, returning it to some semblance of neatness.

Under my fingers, he sighs quietly in feigned annoyance. "I just like having you around, that's all."

"You did say that, yes. Why?" I cannot resist pressing him for an answer. His avoidance of my questions is both very typical and yet strangely charming. I stand up once his hair is straightened and simply look at him.

"Idiot," he mutters and looks away, leaning back into the pillows behind him. When he notices that I am looking at him and smiling, the blush returns and he asks, "What?"

"You are still very much yourself, young master," I tell him.

He falls silent for a moment. Then, he asks, "Well, what about you, Sebastian? You came back. While you may not have originally intended to do so, you've agreed to stay with me. Why?"

"Did I not tell you the other day?" I sit beside him on the bed, something that I would never have dared to do when I had served him a century before. Reaching up., I let my fingers trail down the side of his face to feel the smooth porcelain of his skin. I pull my hand back to a more proper distance after a moment, but I do not stand from the bed. Instead, I lean forward so that my lips nearly brush against his ear. "You are my young master, who I have promised to stay beside and protect. My place is always at the side of my master, who I care for very much."

The way he shivers at having me so close to him is delightful. He allows me a few small seconds of being this close to him before he gives another indignant snort and turns his head away from mine. I lean back and move to stand. Before I can, however, one of his hands snakes up and grabs my sleeve. I follow the pull and in an instant find myself kissing him once again.

The way he effects me never ceases to amaze. I am unaccustomed to this feeling, to this desire to be so close to another person. Even so, since finding him once again, I have wanted to be close to him. Demons destroy humans. Our lives, our very existences are based on the ability to break them completely. And yet, in this moment with him pressed so sweetly against me and the taste of his lips on my tongue, I know that he could destroy me in an instant. If he had died in that car accident, if he had not survived, it would be much the same as if he had taken my own soul. Never before have I so completely desired the presence of one person or thing. Only my young master.

The kiss ends as he pulls back, looking up at me uncertainly as if he has just realized that he kissed me. In his eyes, I can still see doubt. He truly is not certain whether or not I will stay by his side. Perhaps he believes I will leave again, or devour his soul and then vanish into the night. the only way that I will ever be able to erase that doubt is tot stay by his side and show him that I mean what I say. "I will not leave your side again, young master. Not unless you order me to do so."

That pretty pink flush covers his face once more even as he reaches for the cup of tea that is still sitting on the small table at his side. He doesn't respond. I lift myself away from the bed and go to stand by the large window that makes up one wall of the room. Despite the affection that I feel for him, this tie between us is still tenuous. How long will it be before the strands are mended? Possibly never. These are the consequences for actions that are long past. And yet, I do not regret the decision to try and mend things. I have promised him more than I have ever promised any master before, and I am not bothered by that fact.

My memory is not perfect, but I can still very clearly recall the night that he first called me. It is all too easy to take myself back to that moment. My mind's eye can still see the darkness of that sacrificial altar and the room that contained it. The first sight, the first scent, of the dripping blood that flowed over the edges of the stone table where that small body lay. I am old, even for my kind, and I had not taken a contract for the sake of food in nearly a century. What was it that drew me to him, even then? Not his appearance, nor the way he smelled. Certainly not his strength, for he was at death's very door. Perhaps some sense that he was not simply what he appeared to be, a small dying child, caused me to extend the offer. Much like my current offer to return to his service, I did so simply because I wanted to.

The contract that we formed at that time has not degraded or changed. It is exactly as it was all of those many years ago when I tore apart the people who had sullied his body and name. He was ever faithful to the terms that we had laid down. Unlike myself, he tells lies. And yet, in this covenant, it was I who chose to break the promise that I had made to him. Shame is an unfamiliar feeling, foreign and vague even in the  
darkness of time. Perhaps it will fade in this new life that I will build with him.

From behind me, I hear an odd thumping sound as something hits the ground. Then, an electronic beeping and a choking cough. Turning, I see my young master leaning forward even in the elevated bed, one hand pressed to his chest. Something has just gone very wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

The cup of tea tumbles from my young master's hand, spilling tea across the edge of the bed and onto the tile floor. Something is wrong. In an instant, I am by his side as he pants and clutches at the front of his hospital gown. "Young master, what is wrong?"

"My... chest. Hurts. Can't breathe," he says, panting. He was fine only moments ago, but even as the words sound wrong as they leave his mouth. Rough. His heart is speeding up. The electronic heart monitor by the bed has not been disconnected. I can hear the sound of the beeping even above the quickened sound of his pulse.

I waste no time in pushing the button that will summon the nurse. A voice crinkles over the intercom that is built into the side of the bed. "How can I help you?"

"Mr. Randall is having difficulty breathing," I respond.

Less than a minute later, a nurse knocks briefly and then enters the room. At my side, my young master's eyes are wide as he struggles to breathe. The nurse quickly checks the monitors and then pulls out a stethoscope, pressing the end to his back and chest. In an instant, she has put a hand on my young master's shoulder and pushed him back. Her hand hits the controls on the bed, elevating the head of it even further so that he is sitting up as much as possible. "I'll be back momentarily." She looks directly at me. "Do not let him lay back down."

I nod even as I watch her leave the room. Her fast-paced walk does nothing to soothe the worry that I can feel as I listen to the sound of my master's heartbeat. His skin feels too warm against my own as I reach out and take his hand, trying to give him something else to focus on. He looks at me and I can see panic in his eyes even as he clings to the hospital gown, as if pulling it away would make it easier to breathe. I try to keep my own voice level as I tell him, "You must be calm, young master."

His hand tightens on mine as a rough cough shakes his entire body, the sound a crackling wheeze even as droplets of blood drip from his lips and onto the blankets. His eyes are wide in shock as he looks at the red droplets on his fingers as he touches his lips. Without warning, his entire body shakes and I can do nothing but watch in horror as he vomits blood. I can hear myself shouting. "Young master!"

As if on cue, the door to the hospital room opens and the nurse from before enters, followed by a doctor and four other nurses. In an instant, the room is crowded and filled with the urgent sounds of the medical team working. The doctor descends upon my young master, checking all of the same things that the nurse did previously. The others look at the monitors and push syringes of medication into the spare valves on the IV that is still attached to my master's arm. My young master's eyes are wide as he watches all of this, not really seeing any of it. He is staring straight at me, terrified as he mouths my name. I can feel a sharp pain in my chest as I look at him, but there is nothing that I can do. He is afraid. He is in pan. And there is nothing that I can do. I watch him helplessly, feeling trapped by my own uselessness. Fear, cold and cutting, slices through me as my eyes meet his. I tighten my hold on his hand. Then, I can hear myself shouting mindlessly as his eyes roll back into his head and his entire body begins shaking.

"Get him out of here!" I can hear someone shouting. All around me, the nurses and medical attendants are in a frenzy. I can feel myself being pushed back by two of them, but I do not want to leave my master's side. I do not want to let go of his hand. I must not let go of his hand, for I am certain as I never have been before that it will be the end if I leave him now. And yet, there at my side, one of the nurses is telling me that I can do nothing for him here. I will help him more by stepping aside and letting hem work. No matter how much I may fight it, no matter how much I may wish to save him, I know that they are right. I take in one last, long look at my young master and allow myself to be pushed out of the room.

Outside, I watch as the door shuts. There is nothing that I can do except to stand here and listen. I cannot sit. I cannot go and patiently wait as they work over my master. From inside of the room, I can hear every sound, every wheezing cough from my master and every practiced and true order from the doctor. This is the closest I have ever come to feeling terror, true horror at anything. Even when I knew he had been in an accident, it was not nearly as bad as holding his hand and watching the look on his face as he realized what was happening to him.

From nowhere, a nurse appears at my side. She has very clearly been sent by the medical team that is in his room. "Mr. Michaelis, let's go sit and talk for a moment."

"No." I do not want to leave this door. I do not wish to be any further from him than I absolutely must at this moment.

"I know that this is difficult, but we need to discuss what is happening with Frederick," she says, gently. "The doctor has already called for-"

From inside the room, I hear a sound that completely erases everything else in the world. The flat, low sine that indicates that the heart monitor has stopped registering a pulse. I may not have been in a hospital in recent years, but even I know that sound. His heart has stopped. "Young master!"

I take a step forward, unable to stop myself. There is a low electric buzz and I can hear a defibrillator charging and then discharging. A long moment passes and I can hear nothing but that flat electronic sound of the heart monitor. Then, the buzzing charge and another discharge. The sine dies, replaced by the slow and pulsing beep that tells me that his heart is beating once more.

A man in scrubs pushes past me, guiding a low, collapsible medical bed with straps. He opens the door to my young master's room and slides inside. At my side, the nurse does not react to either the man or the sounds coming from inside the room as the door swings open. She also has not remarked on my method of addressing my master. Looking at me, she says, "The doctor has already called for several tests, but they are getting ready to take him into surgery. This is an emergency, but we still need for you to sign a release."

"A release?"

"Yes, like the release for treatment that you signed when he was admitted to the hospital. This one, however, is for the surgery. They believe he has internal bleeding. You are his guardian, correct? Your name is the one listed on his file."

"Yes," I say without a second thought. In any other situation, I might have paused to wonder why my name was listed anywhere on his file. At this moment, it doesn't matter. All that I can think about is my young master and the feel of the warm connection still present at the back of my mind, slightly dimmed by his unconsciousness. The nurse presents me with a small electronic signature pad that is hooked to a computer on a rolling table. I sign quickly and then look at the nurse. "What is happening to him?"

She looks at me momentarily to see whether I actually asking for an answer, or simply a distraught parent looking for someone to talk to. My momentary panic has already faded, and I once again look every bit as serious and competent as I should. Deciding that I am genuinely asking and fully capable of dealing with the information, she replies. "Frederick's blood pressure dropped, and he has had a seizure. They believe that he may have hemorrhaged, which is the reason that they are taking him to surgery. For now, the best thing that you can do for him is to sit and pray, Mr. Michaelis."

The familiar words are a taunting reminder of the first night that I came to the hospital. That does nothing to stop me from shouting as the crash cart, followed by the doctor and nurses, comes out of the room with my young master on it. I get only a momentary glance of him before he is wheeled out of sight. Just seeing him makes my heart ache. For now, what he needs most is the help of a doctor. Not a demon. Once again, it seems that all I can do is wait.

Whatever expression is on my face right now, the nurse seems to feel as if I need some reassurance. "He has an excellent team taking care of him," she says. "Would you like to sit in the waiting room, or would you like to stay here once they get it cleaned up?"

"Waiting room," I tell her automatically. I don't want to stay in his hospital room. She leads me down the hallway and through several others before she shows me into a lounge, much different from the one that I was in the first night. I barely register the thought as she tells me that she will be back with information when possible. Sinking into a chair, I stare at the sage green wallpaper and focus on the fading feeling of my young master in the back of my mind. That simple pull is the only thing that tells me that he is alive, and even then I can barely feel it.

During the time that I served him before, my young master had never been truly seriously injured. Under my careful watch, and that of his other servants, he was kept blissfully safe. It would be untruthful to say that he was never injured. He was, and with some frequency. However, he had never been injured to this extent. I wonder if I would have been able to remain as stoic then, knowing that medicine at the time would not have been able to save him. The doctors now have some chance of healing, of saving and repairing the damage even if it is severe. A century ago, he would have died in my arms. Now, he may die in the arms of a stranger.

Hours pass, and I sit and continue to stare at the wall. My mind is exhausted and, for once, I prefer not to think. This changes only when I look up to see a woman in scrubs standing in the doorway. I stand as she walks over to me and shakes my hand. "Mr. Michaelis?"

"Yes."

"I'm the surgeon who worked on Frederick. He is out of surgery. They are cleaning him up and taking him back to his hospital room," she tells me.

"Tell me what happened." Something in the tone of her voice tells me that something has not gone as planned.

"Frederick has suffered a lot of blood loss. The internal bleeding that was repaired hemorrhaged, and there was inflammation in his lungs. His heart stopped, and we had to restart it. While we are uncertain of the exact cause, which may be tied in with the blood loss, Frederick experienced a series of seizures both before he reached my operating room and when he was being brought in." She pauses, giving me a moment to digest the information. "Frederick was unconscious for a very long portion of time. He is currently unresponsive. There is some concern that a blood clot may be involved. There is also a possibility, however slim, of stroke. I have ordered a series of scans to check and see if that is the case. When the results are back, I will come and discuss them with you."

"If there is a blood clot, what would the treatment be?"

"Ordinarily, we would treat with blood thinners or surgery, depending on the severity and location of the clot. However, due to the difficulties with internal bleeding, our options would be more limited," she says. "However, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Seizures are not that uncommon in children who are undergoing trauma, and your boy has definitely handled the lion's share. He's a very strong young man."

"Thank you." He is. I have never appreciated that fact so much as I have over the past week. "When can I see him?"

She glances up at the clock that hangs forlornly on the wall. "He should be in his room now. The tests should be back by tomorrow morning. I'll come in and talk to you then."

I nod and shake her hand before walking directly past her to get to my young master's side. The door to the room is slightly ajar as the last of the nurses finish up their work. As I walk inside, they nod to me and collect their things. In a moment, I am alone with him once more. Looking around the room, you could not tell what had happened only a few hours ago.

Before the emergency, he had been talking with me and making use of his talent for sarcasm. Now, he looks completely different. An additional monitor has been added, with more leads connected to him. In the quiet of the room, the only things that I can hear are his shallow breathing and the electronic beeping of the equipment that he is still hooked to. I sit down by the bed, reaching out and taking his right hand into my own hands.

At the other end of our connection, I can still feel him, but the feeling is wrong. Faded, muted and dimmed. He is still there, but he does not know that I am here. Not even on a subconscious level. It does not matter to me that he looks like a mess. His skin is yellow and waxy, his hair is plastered to his scalp. He smells of iodine and a dozen other chemical concoctions, all of them revolting. It does not matter. The only thing that I want is to see him open his eyes. It feels as if my entire world revolves around that and only that.

What was the word that the doctor used? Unresponsive. I wonder what she wasn't telling me. Much like I have done countless times for my young master, doctors give precisely as much information as needed. Never more. His hand is so small and even more pale than my own. He still looks the same. All of features are the same, and my youngmaster has always been a fair sight to look at. However, I cannot shake the sense that something is missing or wrong. For now, the only thing that I can do is sit here and wait for the doctor to come and discuss the results of the tests with me.

Sunlight trails in the windows of the hospital when the doctor walks into the room. It is nearly noon and nothing has changed. My young master lies quietly sleeping in his hospital bed. The doctor from last night walks into the room and I nod to acknowledge her, not bothering to let go of my master's hand. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Mr. Michaelis," she says. Her voice doesn't match the words. "I have received the results from the scans and chemical tests that were performed yesterday, and we should discuss the results."

"All right," I say. "What did you find out?"

She pulls up a secondary chair and sits near me, close enough that she is able to look at me directly but still far enough away to give me space. Hospitality. Kindness. These are not good signs. "This is very difficult for me to tell you, Mr. Michaelis.

"When Frederick was brought into my O.R. yesterday, he had already been unconscious for some time, even though he was still seizing. This was probably due to the loss of blood. However, we decided to look for other problems. We ran a number of tests, both with and without contrast, to see if we could see a blood clot that might have been responsible for part of this. However, we were unable to locate one."

"So, that means that there was no blood clot?" I ask. I am listening to her words, but my eyes have drifted down to my young master.

"It's possible that there was a clot in his lungs which was dislodged or broken up by his body. Due to the chest pain and difficulty breathing, combined with his high heart rate and the low fever that he was running yesterday, we suspected a pulmonary embolism. A clot in the lungs. As the clot was not found, there is nothing I can really do on that front." She pauses for a moment, looking down at my young master. "However, my major concern, regardless of the other difficulties that we encountered, was brain damage. Due to the seizures, the difficulty breathing and his heart stopping, Frederick's brain was without oxygen for a time. At the moment, Frederick is in a vegetative state."

"Vegetative state?" I ask, my eyes turn from my young master to the doctor in an instant.

She looks as if she is about to start choosing her words very carefully. "We ran a PET scan to look at his brain activity and response to stimulation. He has very little brain activity. When we look at the brain, there are different levels of activity, in different areas of the brain, that we would expect to see from people who are awake, asleep or who are in a coma. Even people who are in a coma dream and think, on some level. They respond to outside stimulus. Frederick shows no quantifiable response to outside stimulus of any variety. Only very barely on an instinctual level."

"Are you saying that he is brain dead?" I ask, disbelieving. I can feel a deep sense of fear settling into my heart.

"No," she responds. "With brain death, all functions cease. He would not be able to breathe unassisted. However, at the moment, his body is running on auto-pilot. His heart beats and his lungs move, but he is not there. I am sorry, Mr. Michaelis."

"Will he recover?" I am not certain that I actually want to hear the answer to my own question. And yet, I still have to know. At the moment, I am uncertain of what I am feeling. Fear? Anger? There is not a word for this emotion, as though the very edges of my mind are crumbling.

"As a doctor, I am supposed to give you hope while still remaining realistic. In ordinary situations, I would tell you that we would need to wait and see if there is any improvement." She looks at my young master once again, her eyes uncertain. "But, very honestly, there is... very little chance of recovery. I have been in this line of work for thirty years and I have seen this situation more than once. We can wait. We can see. However, based on my own experiences, I do not believe that recovery is likely or imminent. It would take a miracle.

"I will leave the two of you alone for a while and collect some paperwork. My shift ends in an hour. While you don't need to think about it just now, it might be a good idea to consider making arrangements for his long term care. While our hospital is well equipped, there are facilities that are much better equipped to care for someone in his condition. We can, of course, keep him here in case he does recover. It would be my recommendation, though, to go ahead and consider other options. We can discuss this later. I am sorry." She stands and shakes my hand once more before turning and exiting the room.

Unresponsive. Vegetative state. Is this what humans feel like when they are overwhelmed? I am capable of handling nearly any situation that I might come up against. Even for a demon, I would consider myself to be highly competent. For once, I am in a position where I do not know what I should do. I run my thumb over the soft skin of my young master's hand in my own. He looks as though he is just sleeping. In a way, I suppose, he is. A sleep without dreams, one that he might never wake from. There are all manner of monitors and tubes attached to him. The other arm has an IV attached and there are several tubs snaking under his hospital gown. I do not know their function or purpose. Even so, I understand quite clearly that my master is not able to function on his own any longer.

This is not a situation that I have anticipated being in. I am uncertain of what to do, even as I can feel my heart breaking in my chest as I study his face. I have sworn eternal service to my young master, to never leave his side and to follow him wherever he might be. Wherever he is now, he is not hear. I have no way or means to follow him to that dark place. He is not a normal child. He will never age. He will never die a natural death. His injuries are not severe enough to kill him, and the doctors will make certain that his body will continue to function in a way that will sustain life. Unconscious for eternity. What kind of existence is that?

It hurts me to see him like this. He is helpless in a way that he has never been before. I move closer to the bed and reach up, tracing the lines of his face with my fingertips once more. I can feel an uneasy sense of loss settling into my heart as I realize the options that I am contemplating. Irreverent and against tall of the promises that I have made him, even through these past few days.

Nearly a week has passed since I first found my master once more inside of that coffee shop. Unexpectedly and foolishly, I had followed him. The way that I felt when I first saw him standing in the doorway of my apartment still surprises me. I had never thought that, in all of my long life, one small human boy might be enough to cause me to wish to give up my own desires and ambitions simply to follow him. When he had told me that he, too, had cared more than he should I knew that my life had no meaning beyond him. I have never loved anything the way that I love him, and there is nothing that I can do to bring my young master back to me.

How many times have I come close to losing him? A bullet, a knife or some pervert who wanted to destroy him in both body and soul. All of these things have threatened to take him away from me. Each time, I have come to his aid. How easy it has been to tear them apart, to break them and destroy them so completely. To save him.

In the beginning, he had been an amusement for me. In my life, I have found myself bored by the paltry exploits of humans. The goals and lives of my own kind are even more tedious, offering no amusement or interest. Though he was small and broken, I had offered him myself in exchange for his soul. A pitiable price for service until the end of his short life. At that time, I could never have imagined what would happen. I kept him safe, though not out of any real care for him. And yet now, I have difficulty recalling that emotionless promise. Even I could not say exactly at what point it changed, at what point I began to want him to live. And now that I have come so close to being able to allow him that, and to serve at his side, something so insignificant as this will steal him away from me. My young master. The only master that I will ever want or desire in any sense of the word.

I can still feel him through the bond that our contract affords us. At the back of my mind, there is warmth and light. It is barely there. Muted and dimmed, it is nothing more than the dying coals of a fire that once burned bright. This is how it felt while he was in surgery. I had assumed that it was the medication affecting him. Instead, it would seem that something outside of our control has managed to do far worse than our contract or I ever could.

A few days ago, my young master told me something that ways very heavily on my mind even as I lift his hand and hold it to my chest. I can still hear him saying the words as if he had spoken them only moments ago. He had said, 'My entire existence should have been forfeit the moment that my revenge was complete. No, before that. The moment you and I agreed to the contract. I finished my half of that. Taking my soul was your part. I never wanted to live this way for this long.'

He looks incredibly fragile. The weight of the words that he told me echo in my mind and they tell me everything that I need to know. I do not believe that my young master would have wanted to exist like this, either. He is so beautiful, even now. I wish that I could have told him that. Though I know he cannot hear me, I whisper, "I will be by your side, no matter what may happen, until the very end."

My heart feels like it is tearing into pieces as I do what I know that I must. Very slowly, I lean over the bed and press my lips to his own. Against my mouth, I can feel the warmth of his hand the pulse of the heartbeat. However, the wonderful warmth that made my young master who he was is gone. Still, I allow myself a moment to simply feel him. Then, I breathe. There is a quiet moment before the body shudders as the soul detaches itself and flows into me. I could not tell you how his soul tasted, for it was beyond description. The taste matters little when it feels as if your entire world is being pulled into darkness. That vague, warm light at the back of my mind goes dark as I pull away from his body.

Without its soul, the body will die quickly. The heart stops beating even as I pull away from him and stand, stepping away from the bed. Nurses come into the room. A doctor. I barely notice. They can try, but nothing that they do will revive the empty husk that was once my young master. The body has no meaning to me without him inside of it. I have done the thing that I so recently promised not to do. I have devoured his soul. Pain, deep and interminable, hovers just beneath the numb surface of my mind as I realize this. Turning, I walk out of the room and out of the hospital.

Outside, the day is cold. I am aware of the hospital building behind me. The sounds of cars on the streets tell me that there is still traffic, even now. Though there is a light breeze, the sky is clear enough. Even with all of the buildings around me, the sky seems to go on forever. Eternity. That is a very long span of time, and one that I am almost guaranteed to see out. I am immortal and never-ending. Unless I am killed, by one of the few things that are capable of such a thing, my life will never reach a natural end. This is not something that I have ever really pondered or cared about, but never before have I broken a promise to a master. What does one do when they have sworn themselves to someone who no longer exists?

I never put the glove back onto my left hand after showing my master the mark of our contract. Looking at it now, the skin is pale and flawless. There are no black lines marking the skin there any longer. Every trace of the contract that I had with my young master is gone. Memories and belongings are all that I have left of him. The photograph, my old uniform. If I so desired, I could acquire his rings. I still have the loose leaf tea that he enjoyed so much. They are petty little trinkets of no real value to someone such as myself. It is sentimental. Foolish. Ridiculous. Precious. One master for all eternity. It is a strange thing for a demon to want. Unheard of and bordering on idiotic, even for myself. Then again, I have never been truly typical of my kind. I had desired nothing more than to be by his side until the very end, and so I had been.

There are many emotions that demons do not feel. We have the same emotional range as humans, perhaps even greater. However, when we do feel, we do so with a depth that few humans could appreciate. This capability, this weakness, is something that humans cannot comprehend. There are very few times when I have allowed my emotions to effect the way that I have lived. After all, I know better than to become attached. I know better than to become overly involved. I know that I must keep my distance, because this pain that is cutting into me will stay with me for far longer than any mortal man will ever live.

I do not know what I will do now. I know that I will live. For me, there are few things that have ever managed to stay with me for longer than the span of time it takes for me to find some new distraction. I can count the number of them on the fingers of a single hand. Of these things, it is remarkable that one of them has managed to occupy my mind for more than one hundred and twenty years. The one thing that I will always remember is my time in the service of Ciel Phantomhive, the master that I loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end!!! I hope you enjoyed it. I originally posted this on Wattpad many years ago and since I just started using this site, I decided to post it here as well.


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